“Our job tomorrow will be to take off well before daylight for the first time in history and bomb the gun positions and defenses on the landing beaches themselves little more than half an hour before troops are set to land. The six-ship takeoff will be used. Briefing is at three a.m. and the 320th will take off just a few minutes before the 319th.” — 319th Medium Bomb Group Mission Log, August 14, 1944

Decimomannu Air Base in Sardinia was the temporary home of the longest serving group in the Mediterranean theatre, the 319th Medium Bomb Group of the 12th Air Force. Flying Martin B-26 Marauders, the 319th had been bombing communications links, gun positions, and key bridges supplying the German Army in Italy and France. The invasion of Southern France (Operation Dragoon — the so-called, “Second D-Day”) was set for August 15, 1944, and the 319th would be in the thick of it.

The upcoming mission would involve a “six-ship takeoff”, a practice the group had pioneered in April 1944, just four months earlier. To do a six-ship takeoff by day was extraordinary — that the group pulled it off at night is almost beyond belief. Scant practice was afforded, despite the challenges and on August 12, just three days before the invasion, the 319th’s SECRET mission logs recorded the preparations, “The group carried out four six-ship takeoffs and landing in the dark early this morning preparatory to employing them on night missions.”

The Six-Ship Takeoff

The six-ship takeoff was detailed a month later in the USAAF publication, IMPACT, a classified magazine for military distribution (at the time marked CONFIDENTIAL and long since declassified). The report included photos of the 319th’s base at Decimomannu and diagrams showing how the group, using their then-secret method, could field an entire squadron of 24 bombers in the time it took other bomb groups to launch just eight aircraft. The report highlighted that the 319th’s method shaved up to 25 minutes from the time it took to launch and assemble formations for each mission — critical minutes of extra fuel and bomb-carrying capacity that the practice afforded.

The magazine IMPACT described the procedures in some detail:

“All four flights of a 24-ship mission line up before the first starts off, in assembly as shown in the diagram directly below. With manifold pressure pushed to about 25 inches, the pilots release locks and hold the brakes by foot. At the flag, the pilots let go the brakes and start easing up their throttles. From the start, wing men fly on element leaders to the line even. First pilots concentrate on throttling to keep abreast, relying on the co-pilots to handle the other gadgets. A fifth of the 6,000 foot runway is used in getting up to full throttle, and the deliberate easing of throttle makes necessary the use of about 600 feet of runway in excess of that needed for single-ship takeoff.”

By August 1944, the 319th had performed four months of six-ship takeoffs flawlessly — described in IMPACT as “more than 100 missions without mishap”.

Join-Up Patterns

Another key innovation were the methods of joining up into a combat formation after takeoff. This entailed some thoughtful planning and practice. Once formed up, the Bomb Group could proceed directly toward the target.

Detail of the Dogleg Joinup Pattern. Source: IMPACT Magazine, USAAF

“DOGLEG JOINUP PATTERN is demonstrated by the diagram. The first flight off (No. 2) flies for five minutes, the others, at 1-minute intervals, for 4, 3, 2. The turns are 120, 107, 93, and 80 degrees, respectively, The first flight, maintaining 175 mph, is at bomber R/V 5 minutes after the first turn, at 1,500 feet. The Group CO estimates this pattern puts the formation on course only two minutes later than one taking off on course and closing by speed differential.”

The second pattern involved a “racetrack” circle over the base, after which the 319th could assume the most direct course toward the target. IMPACT described that as follows:

“ELLIPTICAL JOINUP is shown by the pattern diagrammed above. Takeoff, unlike that for the dogleg is in order of flights. The takeoff interval is one minute, and each flight makes its first turn at 30 seconds less, from the end of the runway, than that of the preceding flight. The flights turn 360 degrees, each in a tighter ellipse than its predecessor. Bomber rendezvous is at 1,200 feet, and the on-course position accomplished over the field at 1,800 feet, just 12 1/2 minutes after takeoff.”

Diagram of elliptical join-up method. Source: IMPACT Magazine, USAAF

The runways at Decimomannu Air Base were specially-prepared for the six-ship takeoff. Six parallel runways featured oil poured over the hard-packed dirt and sand of Sardinia. This helped reduce dust from prop blast and ensure that the tires didn’t cut deep ruts when moving at high speed.

“STRIPED RUNWAY used for the six-abreast takeoffs and landings is shown below. Width of runway is 1,000 feet. It is divided into the six lanes by the simple expedient of oiling the dirt and gravel surface in strips as shown here. the six planes of the first-off flight line up on yellow-painted tire scraps centered in each of the six lands, the others lining on the plane ahead, all being in position before the first starts away. Danger of collision is in takeoffs and landings has been found to be practically nil.”

After pioneering the six-ship takeoff, it seemed natural for the 319th to employ a six-ship line abreast landing as well. Like the takeoff, landing the entire bomb group six-abreast saved a lot of time, allowing the Bomb Group to conserve precious fuel and reduce the time it took to bring everyone in after a mission.

“THE FORMATION LANDING is completed in 8 1/2 minutes from the time the returning mission reaches the field, cutting 9 minutes from the time the crews of the last planes in formation spent circling the field for ship-ship landings. The formation is over the field at 2,000 feet. The No 3 (inside) flight breaks off in a half needlewidth turn. The succeeding flights, in the order 10402, break at 30-second intervals, each describing a 360-degree ellipse 30 seconds longer than the one ahead. Flights turn off the downwind leg for the approach 45 seconds past the end of the runway, the second element uncovering to the inside of the turn. Landing interval is one minute.”

Landing in a six-ship formation. Source: IMPACT Magazine, USAAF

Invasion Day — Southern France

“Virtually the entire group got up at two-thirty today. Those not scheduled to fly or who didn’t have to get up for other duties got up anyway out of excitement to watch the show and be ready to lend a hand where possible. By the time the 320th started taking off, before five a.m., most of the 319th spectators and crews, including a number of ground men who volunteered and got permission to go along in order to see the invasion, were on hand on the field looking on. Two searchlights at the starting of the runway furnished a dramatic glare in which the airplanes, lighted at wing tips and tail, lined up.”

The stage was set for the launch of both bomb groups. After four months of “mishap free” takeoffs, attempting the six-ship take off at night proved more challenging in practice, however, with a full load of bombs, ammunition, and fuel.

“One 320th ship crashed into a hill a mile or two beyond the runway and burned. It was a discouraging sight for the 319th crews, none of whom had ever taken off in the dark before in B-26′s. Then a second ship crashed closer to the field and, a few minutes later, a third failed to get off. The latter two ships also caught fire, exploded and burned. The tension was terrific. Men wondered aloud if the crew members had been able to get out of the unlucky ships before the explosions and made arrangements among themselves as to just what crew members in their own ships were to use what escape hatches in the event of a crash. But, using the six-ship takeoff, every 319th airplane got off safely. The group had the unequaled number of 74 airplanes over the target, the most put up by any group in the wing. In the 437th, which put into the air every one of its 20 ships, three crew chiefs got sick from nervousness after their airplanes had got safely into the air. One crew chief, whose 90-mission airplane went on two missions during the day, was seen to light his cigarette and then throw away his lighter away like a match.”

The invasion fleet off the coast of France’s Cote Azur during Operation Dragoon.

For the 319th, the mission went perfectly, as described in the 319th mission logs:

“Over the target clouds were pretty thick, but, with an area target, a strip of beach seven-eighths of a mile long, the group dropped its bombs, identifying its position through breaks in the clouds, and got an amazingly good coverage. The only flak opposition was a barrage put up over a town a mile away from the formation. There were no enemy fighters encountered. Ont the other hand, Beaufighters, P-47′s Spitfires, Warhawks and carrier-borne Hellcats wheeled around over the beaches like seagulls looking in vain for opposition. As the 319th formation broke away from the coast after loosing its bombs a formation of silver B-24′s crossed over it at right angles heading out to sea about two thousand feet higher. Warships below could be seen firing at the shore, carriers were poking around with planes taking off and landing on them, and clusters of ships were maneuvering here and there off shore. As the last 319th wave pulled away from the beaches the ships below began moving in toward shore for their eight o’clock landing.”

The day’s entry ended on a positive note, stating first — “Colonel Holzapple expressed himself as very pleased with the job.” And then, a fitting end of the day, the 319th’s log states, “Not a single airplane was lost by the 319th during the day.” Of course, the 320th, flying from the same base, had suffered terrible losses just in the takeoff.

An additional reminder of the unpredictable nature of war came just two days later, highlighted with this entry in the 319th’s log for August 17, 1944. Luck was with them that day too, however, and there were no casualties:

“An entirely-messed-up 24-ship mission got no bombs closer to coastal guns near Toulon than half a mile away. One flight had every ship damaged by flak, but the other flights had only a couple of ships apiece with a couple of holes in them. Part of the mess was due to a bad turn on the part of the first flight on the approach to the target and the lead bombardier forgetting to turn on his intervalometer. Critique was pretty gloomy as a result.”

Though the six-ship takeoff and landing served the 319th and 320th Medium Bomb Groups well throughout the late period of the war, the practice was not adopted other groups. In many cases, single plane-width runways were all that were available — as was the standard for all of the Stations in England, for instance. In other cases, the knowledge of the methods used was ignored or unavailable to those who might have benefited from the practice. After the end of World War II, the USAAF (and subsequently USAF) did not continue to use the 319th’s six-ship takeoff method, despite its obvious benefits.

Decimomannu Air Base today. Source: Google Maps

Decimomannu Air Base, where the 319th Medium Bomb Group was based at the time, remains a military airfield to this day. Gone are the six parallel strips of oil-soaked dirt. Today, the field has but two parallel runways. Of course, these days, it is rare to see raids at the scale that were regularly practiced during World War II. Hopefully, the world will never see another “thousand bomber raid”, and even the 319th’s raids, with 20 to 76 aircraft in formation at once, are rare. There seems little need to launch six planes at a time and, even if they were launched, modern warplanes usually form up for the attack only after a round of aerial refueling. The bottleneck, it seems, has more to do with the limitations of tankers than multiple runways.

On D-Day, June 6, 1944, after passing a tense and confusing early morning hours in the cockpit of his yellow-nosed Messerschmitt Bf 109G, Leutnant Thomas Beike of Jagdabschnittführer 5 received his mission orders. With two other Bf 109Gs, he was to fly a fast reconnaissance flight over Normandy Beach to assess and report what was happening. With the engine started, he pushed the throttle forward and rolled out of the hidden, tree-lined revetment north of the French town of Évreux, then he took off into a sky filled with Allied aircraft.

Even as his wheels came up, the first P-51D Mustangs were already coming down to attack. He had his orders, however, and rather than engage them in a dogfight, he turned away to escape. One of the other two Messerschmitts was hit, however, but at full power, he pulled away, all alone. The D-Day beaches were straight ahead. This is his story.

Most know of the famous flight of Josef Priller and his wingman, a single pair of Luftwaffe Fw 190A-8 fighters that flew down the D-Day beaches and returned to report what they had seen. For many years, that flight was supposedly the only sign of the Luftwaffe in the air during all of D-Day. Decades of research, however, have proved that wrong — and new evidence has emerged that multiple others flew as well. Nonetheless, the Luftwaffe was so outnumbered that it could do little to stop the invasion.

An aerial photo of the junction of King Red and King Green beaches, Gold assault area, during the landing of 50th Infantry Division, 6 June 1944. The Mont Fleury battery (WN 35a) and an anti-tank ditch are visible in front of the village of Ver-sur-Mer. Source: Imperial War Museum, Photo #CL3947

A Newly Discovered Daring Flight

New information about another daring flight on D-Day comes from a book of interviews that was undertaken with surviving German soldiers, all of whom were veterans of D-Day. These men were located in 1954 and interviewed by Dieter Eckhertz, a former German war correspondent who during WWII wrote stories for the German military propaganda magazines, “Signal” and “Die Wehrmacht”. Just a few months prior to D-Day, Dieter Eckhertz had toured the Atlantic Wall and written reports for those magazines. Ten years later, on his own personal initiative, he searched out survivors of some of the German units he had visited during the war to conduct his interviews.

His notes and the transcripts of the interviews were then put into storage and left untouched for over 70 years. Perhaps Herr Eckhertz knew that someday his efforts would serve to document the other side of the story of D-Day. Perhaps he simply did his interviews and research to satisfy his own interest. Nonetheless, his interviews uncovered stories that would have otherwise never been told. It is true, in a sense, that history is written by the victors — few Germans wanted to talk about their experiences after the war ended. As it happened, Dieter Eckhertz’s grandson, Holger Eckhertz, discovered the box of interview notes and transcripts. In 2014, he published the first of them in a book called D-Day Through German Eyes. Subsequently, in 2015, given the positive reception of the first book, he published a second book of interviews.

Among the interviews in the second book is an incredible story of Leutnant Thomas Beike of Jagdabschnittführer 5, who was based at a hidden airfield “somewhere north of Évreux”. He revealed that he had flown over the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. The Luftwaffe ace Josef Priller, it seems, wasn’t the only Luftwaffe fighter pilot to race down the beaches at low level after all.

Captured Messerschmitt Bf 109G, c. 1945.

Experiences Leading Up to D-Day

Thomas Beike’s flight originated from the newly built, hidden satellite airfields at Évreux, a small French town in Normandy, south of Rouen. Évreux is only 90 km east-southeast of the invasion beaches. During WWII, the Luftwaffe had used the field and the surrounding area as a series of airbases, as well as a decoy airfield designed to draw off Allied bombing raids. On D-Day, the area was the base of both Jagdabschnittführer 5, Schnellkampfgeschwader 10, KG-54 (and possibly several other Luftwaffe units). This was in the area that the Germans called the Évreux-Lisieux Sector.

Prior to D-Day, Jagdabschnittführer 5 had been based on the flat fields north of the town, on the grounds of a chateau that the Luftwaffe had taken over for use to house the pilots and ground crews. The Luftwaffe provided well for its units in France, in stark contrast to the challenging conditions on the Eastern Front, where Leutnant Thomas Beike had previously been posted. As he noted in his interview, “I went from bedding down in a frozen hut, as I did in my posting on the Eastern Front, to sleeping in a proper bed with a staff servant to attend to meals and the polishing of boots and other necessities.”

He went on to note that the chateau “had a wine cellar which was very well stocked, and the quality of food available locally was remarkable.” As well, he spoke freely about the pilots “were popular fellows with the French ladies”. Life at the airfield was excellent indeed and many of the French supported the Germans willingly with food and other support that supplanted the rations that the Luftwaffe offered the squadrons on the front.

In the months prior to D-Day, as the number of bombing raids increased, a decoy airfield was built nearby in hopes of distracting the Allied air attacks from the Luftwaffe’s forward-positioned aircraft. The months of living well in the chateau too came to an end as the building was too easy a target. Soon, they were moved and billeted off the field in a farm house several kilometers away. The planes, once parked around the airfield, were moved into the forest and hidden in reinforced revetments, surrounded by thick blast walls. On many mornings, in the early hours, the squadron’s planes would launch in hopes of intercepting returning RAF night bombers as they crossed the coastline heading home to England. They shot many down in this way.

German aircraft hidden in the trees at satellite airfields, in this case Fw 190s.

A Birthday Celebration

On the night of June 5, six of the pilots and two senior base officers gathered for a small birthday party of one of their number. A number of French ladies joined them, along with the wife of one of the senior officers, who was visiting — an ill-timed trip to see her husband if ever there was one. Bottles of wine were opened and the small celebration was well underway when the sounds of the vast force of C-47s passing overhead interrupted what otherwise might have been a late night. The group went outside and listened as the vast armada was passing, the droning of the engines sounding markedly different from German engines which, in multiengine aircraft were not usually adjusted to synchronize their propellers. Thus, while the German planes made a rising and falling sound as the propellers rotated at slightly different rates, Allied planes sounded a consistent, synchronized tone.

Soon the ladies departed and were driven home by a squadron car. The pilots made efforts to sleep, knowing by the sound of the vast armada that the big day had come. As for Leutnant Thomas Beike, he slept uneasily, continuously awakened by the sounds of Flak guns, the droning of the aircraft engines and the sounds of explosions through the night as the first airborne troops engaged to the west of the airfield behind the beaches. In the first hour of dawn, his orderly retrieved him and drove him to the airfield area where he joined with the others around the fighter planes parked in the woods.

He told his interviewer that when nearing the satellite airfield, probably Évreux/VI near Le Bos Hion and Reuilly, “We saw a peculiar sight, so baffling that we stopped and stared. This was an Allied glider which had crashed into one of the meadows, and it was just sitting there on its belly, apparently abandoned. In retrospect, this must have been a single glider which had drifted inland from the attacks on the coast, but the sight of it alarmed us.” The glider troops, however, were long gone, having moved out to find and engage the German Army elsewhere. Most likely, they never knew that they had landed nearly adjacent to a German airfield, where they could have done extensive damage.

Soon after arriving, the Luftwaffe pilots were briefed about the airborne invasion at Carentan, well west of the airfield. They ate a quick breakfast and then, from their hidden revetments, they watched in the distance as an American Fighter Group of P-38 Lightnings rigorously attacked the decoy airfield that they had set up nearby, which included fake runways, fake buildings and hangars, and other airfield facilities meant to deceive attacks from the air. This was called Évreux-Huest and was located approximately at 49º 02′ 29″ N – 01º 12′ 43″ E, just north of the small village at Huest.

At approximately 6:30 am, the pilots got into their cockpits and waited for orders. Several times, information was delivered by runners but no orders to launch came. After three hours, at approximately 9:00 am, orders were delivered to take off and attack any air targets that they could with priority given to attacking troop transport planes and bombers. Before engines could be started, the orders were rescinded. Overhead, the pilots could see hundreds of Allied aircraft passing in waves, crisscrossing the sky north and south.

A Messerschmitt Bf 109G-6 of Stab I./JG3, with another pilot, Oberleutnant Max Bruno Fischer, in the cockpit at one of the satellite fields at Évreux during June 1944.

Later in mid-morning, probably sometime around 10:30 am or 11:00 am based on the context of the pilot’s interview, the squadron commander ordered three fighters to take off on an armed reconnaissance patrol. Their mission was to get an aerial view of the unfolding situation along the beaches of Normandy to the west-northwest. At that point, given the damage done to German communications lines, the base and many other German units were in confusion as to what was happening. The commander gave Leutnant Beike his personal Leica aviation camera, asking him to photograph what he saw. Engines were started and the three planes quickly taxied out to take off.

Take Off and First Engagement

The three Messerschmitts moved quickly to take off individually in rapid successfully. Each of the pilots immediately pulled up their landing gear, retracting the wheels as they pushed the throttles hard to get as much airspeed as possible. Leutnant Beike was the second plane off the ground and the three planes quickly joined up into what he called “a staggered formation of three, separated by altitude”. They took a westerly heading toward Caen.

P-51 Mustangs, including (E9-S, serial number 42-106707) nicknamed “Sleepytime Gal”, (B7-E, serial number 42-106839) nicknamed “Bald Eagle III” and (E9-K) nicknamed “Vi” opf the 361st Fighter Group line up for take off on D-Day at Bottisham. Source: Imperial War Museum, Photo #FRE 6207

As the three Luftwaffe fighters leveled off at low altitude, a pair of P-51D Mustangs swooped down from the 4 o’clock position (described as coming from the direction of “120 degree point”, which would essentially mean coming from the northeast as the planes flew westward). Achieving complete surprise, the Mustangs opened fire as they flashed through the German formation. After their first high speed firing pass, they pitched up into a climbing turn to come back around for a second attack. One of the three Messerschmitts, flown by the pilot who had just celebrated his 25th birthday the night before, was hit. Leutnant Beike watched as it caught fire.

Leutnant Beike stated, “He began to make a lot of grey smoke as he turned away. As he banked below me, I remember that an orange glow began to spread from his engine. I remember that I groaned, knowing what this meant, and in a few moments his cowling few off in pieces and flames shot back over his cockpit. I could not look properly, because the air was full of these damned Mustangs, but I remember seeing him with his arms over his face, like this… and then he was simply lost in all the flames.” As it happened, the pilot made a final effort to return for a landing but was killed when his Messerschmitt exploded on short final.

There was no time to tarry and, knowing that the P-51D Mustangs would soon be back for another attack, he pushed the nose down and headed west-northwest straight for the coast, his throttle rammed all the way forward. In the dive, his Bf 109G accelerated to over 600 km/hr, which was over its maximum speed. In this way, he was able to escape the pursuit of the two P-51Ds that had made the first, devastating pass. At this point, he apparently lost sight of the third Messerschmitt. He never saw it again and apparently it was lost that day as he reported at the end of his interview that he was the only survivor of the three who took off.

Allied recce photo of Juno Beach during the landings on D-Day, June 6, 1944.

At the Beaches of Normandy

After about 7 to 10 minutes in a flight of about 110 km (roughly 70 miles), he reached the coast, probably near Ouistreham. “The coast itself just leapt up at me at that speed,” Leutnant Beike said, “and from that height I could then see a massive line of ships out at sea, about three kilometres from the shore. This just happened like that, in the blink of an eye… my canopy glass was just full of these ships. I was astonished at this sight. I wondered if I was hallucinating, or if this was a delirium of some kind. I had never seen such an assembly of ships, and I’m sure nobody will ever see such a thing again, perhaps not in human history. The sea was absolutely solid with metal, that is no exaggeration.”

He turned quickly to proceed west over the coast, on the land side over the German Army defenses that made up the so-called “Atlantic Wall”. To look down and to the right at the beaches and fleet offshore, he banked the wings of his Messerschmitt as he flew. Based on the description, he would have passed over the beaches that the Allies had code-named Sword (British Sector), Juno (Canadian Sector) and Gold (British Sector). At the time of the interviewer, Dieter Eckhertz, thought these were just Gold and Juno beaches, though a careful assessment of the maps points to his flight having been almost certainly over all three beach sectors that morning.

Leutnant Beike reported, “I saw that the beaches were crammed with vehicles, moving in on transport barges, and even tanks were being unloaded like that…. Throughout the beaches, there were fires burning, vehicles and boats on fire, and explosions from artillery. I saw flamethrowers being used inland, very powerful ones, and the flames lit up a wide area down there. The enemy were driving a bridgehead inland, that was clear to see, and they had enormous resources building up on the sand waiting to move off. I could see flashes of bombs and shells all over the inland area. I remember that some of the fields were flooded, and the exploding shells sent out concentric shock waves through the water that was very noticeable.”

Photograph of the D-Day invasion fleet massing off of the coast of the Isle of Wight June 4-5, 1944, from an RAF aircraft.

All around him, the sky was full of Allied aircraft. He described it as a “low umbrella of fighters over the beach, and they came straight for me.” Clearly, Leutnant Beike was in trouble, vastly outnumbered by the fighter cover over the beaches. Within a couple of minutes, he saw the first three USAAF Mustang fighters rapidly closing on him. Realizing that there was no way to proceed westward along the beach anymore — he had flown over perhaps 30 km of beach and was probably near Arromanches — he turned to the southwest and headed inland to evade. In all, at the speeds he was flying down low over the beach just inland, he probably had overflown Sword, Juno, and Gold Beaches in just over three minutes. With the P-51Ds closing in, there was no chance to continue westward over the American beaches of Omaha and Utah, which were just to the west.

“There were three coming after me. I went down to minimum height and maximum speed, which was safe because the land is so flat there, and the German Flak would be less likely to misidentify me, I hoped. I thought that if I could move away from the beach head, the Mustangs would turn back to protect their sector. So I used a huge amount of fuel accelerating to the South West.” Maximum speed at sea level in a Messerschmitt Bf 109G with full boost and blower pressure is approximately 515 km/hr (which is 320 mph based on RAF flight tests) — this meant that he was flying over 9 km per minute, about one kilometer ever 6.5 seconds.

At full power, the Messerschmitt was a hard target to follow in an extended tail chase. Leutnant Thomas Beike continued, “I went west as far as Saint Lô, and I couldn’t see the Americans behind me, so I turned East and flowed the forest back towards Évreux.” Having evaded his attackers, Leutnant Beike continued to their base, intending on landing and relaying a report of what he had seen. As he raced at low altitude over the Normandy countryside east of Saint Lô and toward Caen, he could see masses of German Wehrmacht troops and vehicles along the roads and spread out into the fields and wood lines.

The route of flight on D-Day.

After Caen, he passed Lisieux and Bernay enroute to Évreux. Arriving to the satellite airfield at Évreux, he could see the burning wreckage of his colleague’s Messerschmitt at one end of the runway. The satellite field was already under attack. Amidst a strafing attack by USAAF fighter planes, he landed and rolled to a stop. Without delay, he jumped from the cockpit and ran for cover in one of the slit trenches alongside the field. He described the situation as follows: “The smoke from this burning plane was a beacon to the American planes, who came back just like a pack of wolves. I landed as they were strafing again, and I had to jump straight into a slit trench on top of the ground crew.”

In between the falling bombs, he jumped up from the slit trench and ran to the main shelter hidden in the trees. Once there, he submitted his reconnaissance report, only then realizing that despite having had the commander’s Leica camera at his side in the cockpit, he had completely forgotten to take even a single photo. Given the situation, his oversight is certainly understandable, but we can only wish today that he had snapped just one photo — it would have been historic.

With the continuous attacks, his satellite field at Évreux was kept inoperative for several hours. Subsequently, without orders and in the confusion of events — as well as considering the overwhelming air superiority that the Allies enjoyed overhead, Leutnant Thomas Beike did not get into the air again for the rest of the day. Only after moving to another of the satellite airfield southeast of Évreux, was he able to fly in the days after. After subsequently being injured in combat, Leutnant Beike was sent to a hospital in Normandy to recover. This was subsequently overrun by US Army forces and he was captured without a shot being fire. Thus, he survived the war, spending the next year as a POW.

British soldiers in Normandy point to a road sign, c. June 1944.

Final Notes

Leutnant Thomas Beike’s flight over the beaches was extraordinary. To make it, he had to use every bit of speed and skill he had, flying low and at the highest speed. Three took off, but only he returned. Throughout his flight, he was repeatedly chased by USAAF fighters. Always outnumbered, it is nothing short of a miracle that he survived. Even his landing was fraught with danger as he landed in the midst of an attack on his airfield. He never fired a shot, but returned with the mission completed as ordered. His report was sent up the chain of command, clarifying the situation on the beaches that morning.

Of course, by the time he flew, perhaps at around 10:30 am or 11:00 am, though no precise time is stated, the beaches he flew over were already in Allied hands. The German Army was hopelessly outnumbered and, while they could slow the Allied advance, once the beach heads were secure, the vast numbers of troops and vast amounts of materiel and supplies that landed overwhelmed any hope the Germans had of defending France. By late August, the Luftwaffe airfield at Évreux was in Allied hands and Paris was liberated. The Allied advance was unstoppable.

OTHER DATA AND RESEARCH

Allied Dominance in the Air

By June 6, 1944, 73 years ago in aviation history, the Allies had established nearly complete air superiority over northern France, including over the beaches at Normandy. During the early morning hours of D-Day, wave after wave of C-47s towed gliders and delivered paratroopers behind the beaches. Their mission was to interdict logistics, cut communications lines, sow confusion, and take out key defenses, including many of inland coastal fortresses. These were the heart of the Atlantic Wall and housed naval guns that were sighted on the beaches. Few Luftwaffe night fighters could challenge the vast aerial armada. Only the Luftwaffe’s Flak gunners were active.

At dawn, heavy bombers, such as B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberators, dropped tons of bombs on German defenses behind the beaches. A low haze and cloud cover obscured the beaches in the early morning hours and these were inaccurate. Again, these too were not reasonably challenged. Then the USAAF’s and RAF’s medium bombers hit key road junctions, rail stations, depots, radar sites, and airfields. With the dawn, “Jabos”, the German name for Allied ground attack fighters like the P-47 Thunderbolt, flew low altitude ground attack missions against targets of opportunity while multiple Fighter Groups of P-51s, Spitfires, Hurricanes, and other planes patrolled the skies for any sign of the Luftwaffe’s fighters and bombers.

At the small airfield near Évreux, France, P-38 Lightnings made an attack to ensure that the Luftwaffe’s assets that were based there — both fighters and bombers — were kept on the ground. However, instead of hitting the Luftwaffe’s newly constructed satellite airfields surrounding the old French-built base, they shot up a decoy field that the Germans had constructed, doing no damage whatsoever. Évreux, one of the bases to the east of the D-Day beaches, was still operational. Most of the rest of the Luftwaffe’s Normandy airfields, however, were out of action for the day.

Richard “Dick” Hallion, a well-regarded aviation historian, states that the RAF’s tactical air forces had 2,434 fighter and fighter-bomber aircraft to use on D-Day. As well, they field approximately 700 light and medium bombers. The USAAF, as well was heavily engaged in an all-out effort and had more, though numbers are not readily available. Likewise, another historian (C.P. Stacey) reports that RAF Bomber Command flew 1,136 sorties with its heavy bombers against the areas behind the beaches the night before and that day. Against this massive force, the Luftwaffe had insufficient strength anyway in France to adequately defend, even if most of the bases were hit.

American soldiers fight their way toward the shore on D-Day.

“The Luftwaffe Did Nothing”

Largely because of the overwhelming odds that the Allies created against the Germans, the common myth about D-Day is that “the Luftwaffe did nothing.” As mentioned before, most believe only that there was just one Luftwaffe flight that flew over the beaches that day — this was the pair of Focke-Wulf Fw 190A-8s lead by the German ace Josef Priller along with his wingman, Sgt. Wodarczyk. This is wrong, however.

Months of continuous pounding by the Allies on their airfields, logistics, and fuel supplies had curtailed much of the Luftwaffe’s pre-1944 power. By D-Day, many aircraft were unable to fly. The air superiority that the Allies had established over Northern France by early Summer 1944 had taken its toll, downing many of the veteran pilots before the invasion. Younger pilots with far less training filled the ranks. Drug use, including heroin, cocaine, and especially amphetamines, was common. Alcoholism was increasingly a problem for the survivors, who were literally being flown to death against overwhelming odds. What Luftwaffe forces remained were hidden along the edges of forests and by roads, from which they could only hope to launch quick strikes and then return before being intercepted and shot down.

Thus, it wasn’t so much that “the Luftwaffe did nothing” — it was that they were worn down, grounded for lack of spare parts, and attacked relentlessly to ensure that they could not threaten the invasion. The pilots, exhausted and demoralized from months of tension and continuous engagement, did what they could — often showing extraordinary bravery.

Other Known Aerial Engagements

The first engagement of the day was apparently a single night fighter that flew well west of their usual patrol area around Holland and Belgium and chased what was probably an RAF Avro Lancaster on its way back to its base after dropping bombs on a target deeper inland. Tracer fire being exchanged between the night fighter (of unidentified type) and the Lancaster was visible in the night skies.

Later, before dawn broke, a flight of four Fw 190s from 3/SKG 10 (3rd Squadron of Schnellkampfgeschwader 10), lead by Hauptmann Helmut Eberspächer, took off. These were daylight fighters that Hauptmann Eberspächer lead into the air in the pre-dawn hours. Over the course of a two hour flight, in the pre-dawn light and precisely at 5:01 am, the four Fw 190s intercepted four RAF Avro Lancasters heavy bombers as they were making their way back toward England. Within the next three minutes, all four Lancasters were downed, the first falling at Isigny-sur-Mer and the others near Carentan. None of the German planes were lost in the attack. One of those was the RAF Avro Lancaster ND739 flying with No. 97 Squadron RAF (Pathfinders) from RAF Coningsby. The plane was piloted by the squadron’s commanding officer, Wing Commander Jimmie Carter.

Just a half hour later, as the invasion began, a Luftwaffe bomber wing, Kampfgeschwader 54 (KG 54), launched the first of a series of attacks on the easternmost beachhead where the British Army was landing at Sword Beach. These bombing attacks were made through the morning, despite overwhelming Allied air superiority and the threat of interception — each was flown as a fast raid, with the planes loaded and fueled in their hidden, tree-lined revetments, and then taking off for a quick dash to the beaches, dropping their bombs and racing back for a landing, after which they were pushed back into the treeline and hidden.

A German cluster bomb of the type, Sprengbombe Dickwandig 2 kg (SD2), hung up in a tree, showing its unique “Butterfly Bomb” shape.

These missions were flown with KG 54′s Junkers Ju 88s and employed so-called Butterfly Bombs, which in Luftwaffe parlance were called Sprengbombe Dickwandig 2 kg (SD2). These bombs were the first “cluster bombs” and, once dropped, they dispersed up to 108 submunitions widely as an anti-personnel weapon. The other attacks mounted by KG 54 on Sword Beach were as follows: a) III./KG 54 attacked Lion-sur-Mer by air; b) I./KG 54 attacked Allied shipping while it was anchored off the mouth of the River Orne. This latter attack, however, was costly as five of the Luftwaffe bombers were shot down by No. 145 Wing RAF.

As well, there were attacks against the British forces at Gold at sunset on June 6, well after the beach head was established. Several flights of Luftwaffe bombers caused damage and casualties at Le Hamel. Others bombed and damaged a road near Ver-sur-Mer, hoping to slow the British advance inland.

Also that evening, II/KG 40 made a daring, massed attack, flying 26 Heinkel He 177 heavy bombers in a large formation to attack Allied shipping off Gold Beach. These heavy bombers were equipped with one of the Nazi “super weapons”, the Henschel Hs 293 anti-ship guided missiles. However, Allied air and AAA was effective and the II/KG 40 lost 13 of its heavy bombers in that attack, fully half its force. It is unclear how much damage was done in these attacks but at least some of the missiles likely hit Allied ships.

Insignia of Luftflotte 3, of which Jagdabschnittführer 5 was a part in Normandy during June 1944.

Records of Luftwaffe bases in the vicinity collected and summarized by history Henry L. deZeng IV indicate that the main field at Évreux was east of the city and called Évreux/Ost (Position 49º 01′ 30″ N – 01º 13′ 20″ E). It was largely used as a Luftwaffe bomber base from 1940 until 1944. The airfields HQ was located in two châteaux, both at Le Breuil nearby. At the time of D-Day, the field had a number of active satellite fields with the planes concealed in treelines and forests around the fields.

These were:

Évreux/I, located just west of the French village Miserey at approximately 49º 01′ 14″ N – 01º 15′ 18″ E with grass runways measuring 1350 yards long and 200 yards wide.

Évreux/II, located just south east of the French village Huest at approximately 49º 01′ 57″ N – 01º 12′ 59″ E with grass runways measuring 1650 yards long and 200 yards wide.

Évreux/VI, located 5.5 km north-northeast of the original French-built airfield at Évreux, south of the French villages Le Bos Hion and Reuilly, at approximately 49º 01′ 57″ N – 01º 12′ 59″ E with grass runways measuring 1400 yards long and 250 yards wide.

Three other satellite airfields, III, IV, and V, were still under construction at the time of D-Day.

“At the aero show held at New York early this year there was exhibited a Curtiss triplane, which aroused the greatest interest owing to the decidedly novel lines on which it was constructed. The Curtiss Autoplane as it was called was really a motor car with wings.” So began the description in the Royal Aero Club’s magazine, Flight. This was the world’s first “roadable plane”, as they are known nowadays — the aeronautical dream of combining a car with an airplane. It happened 100 years ago in 1917.

A rare photograph of the Curtiss Autoplane on display at the Pan American Aeronautical Exposition in February 1917.

Even if the idea of a flying car is a century old, no manufacturer has yet made it practical. The attraction is obvious — having flown hundreds of miles, the aviator finds herself in a distant town. Airports, however, are almost always well outside of the city limits. How to get downtown for the proverbial “$100 hamburger”? Aircraft designers have long dreamed of landing, taxiing in, and then dropping off the wings, to transform the fuselage into an automobile. With that, you drive downtown for a bit of shopping, lunch, or perhaps a business meeting.

Technical drawing of the Custiss Autoplane, from February 18, 1917, by Glenn Curtiss.

What sounds good as an idea, however, doesn’t work out in practice. Cars are not held to the same regulatory standards as airplanes and making the two compatible is deeply challenging. Airplanes must be exceedingly lightweight, while cars must be made stronger to keep the passengers safe from possible accidents on the road. Cars are designed to travel on four wheels for tens of thousands of miles, while airplane wheels and landing gear only require high speed touchdowns; the tires themselves are replaced after a few hundred landings because they wear out fast. The drive system to power a propeller does not easily convert into a system to turn the tires and accelerate the car along without a lot of gearing and added weight. The aerodynamics of the two are vastly different — even the speeds that they are expected to travel require different angles, fairings, and contours.

One hundred years ago, the Royal Aero Club’s magazine, Flight, implicitly recognized these issues. The regulatory free zone that prevailed in 1917 was less a challenge, however, and many saw the merit in the idea. The writers related the public suspicion with which the design was viewed, saying, “…although there were those who, at the time of the show, were inclined to smile and regard the machine as something of a joke on the part of the Curtiss firm, or at most a machine built solely for the purpose of creating a sensation at shows and in processions, a brief consideration will suffice to show that the machine, in spite of unconventional design, is not the freak aerodynamically some critics suggest.”

Technical drawing showing the top view and wing plan of the Curtiss Autoplane.

At least Flight respected the effort and went to great lengths to detail the key design features: “The engine, a 1oo h.p. Curtiss, is mounted in front under a bonnet, motor car fashion, and is provided with the ordinary starting handle projecting through the radiator in the nose. A four wheeled under carriage is fitted, the front wheels of which are connected up to the controls in such a manner as to allow of steering the machine on the ground at low speeds. Inside the limousine body are three seats, the pilot’s in front, and two passenger seats side by side further back. The upper plane is attached to a cabane resting on the roof of the body, while the two lower planes, the bottom one of which is of shorter span than the other two, are attached to the body. The propeller is mounted approximately on a level with the centre wing, and is driven through a long shaft from the engine. In addition to the rear elevator which, with the other tail units, is mounted on two booms, there is a small front elevator projecting out from the engine bonnet, giving the impression of mud guards.”

Internal layout and seating, highlighted by the cabin design. From Glenn Curtiss’ patent application of February 1917.

Indeed, while the design sounded promising as written, the key issue proved to be aerodynamics. Just how to achieve efficiency when the fuselage, rather than being a narrow and arrow-shaped balancing act, to which attached the wings, the engine and the tail, was a wide, four-wheeled car?

To answer that question, Flight continued with its report: “At first sight it would appear that the head resistance would be somewhat excessive, but owing to the shape of the body, a section through a plane on level with the bottom of the windows would approximate very closely to a stream line section, so that the real resistance may probably be found to be a good deal less than one would at first expect. Placed where it is, the propeller should coincide pretty well with the centre of resistance, as it must be remembered that the upper wing carries a greater load than the other two, and that, although the resistance of the body is acting fairly low down, the bottom plane is of short span and offers but little resistance.”

The overriding sense one has when reading the article is that the writers felt that even the greatest aerodynamic challenges could be overcome. Common sense, thoughtful design, and careful fairing would reduce wind resistance and make the design aerodynamically sound. The use of a pusher propeller helped increase the efficiency of lift generation from the wing.

Lacking flight test data or the opportunity to fly the machine themselves, the writers at Flight reverted to comparison to tease out further issues: “The machine would have a very low centre of gravity, certainly, but this has not proved detrimental to good flying in such machines as the Morane parasol, and the centre of side area also appears to be quite low in comparison with the centre of lift of the three wings. A constructional feature which could, we think, be improved upon is the method of mounting the tail planes, which does not impress one as being any too strong. Otherwise the machine appears to us to promise very well in many respects, and the Curtiss firm are to be congratulated on being first to produce what really seems to be the first attempt at the comfortable enclosed small machine of the future.”

Close-up of the an illustration of the Curtiss Autoplane in a report from the New York Times, February 13, 1917. Artist unknown.

The answers that the Curtiss representatives themselves gave at the show when asked, however, were less than compelling. As a result, the reporters from Flight struggled to remain optimistic given the lack of flight date. They believed in the overall promise of a flying car, but left the show uncertain if the machine had even flown at all: “At the moment we have not been able to ascertain whether or not the machine has been flown, but although alterations and improvements are still to be expected, it does appear to us that this machine is a step in the right direction. For a three seater the power does not impress one as being quite sufficient, but it should not be a matter of great difficulty to install a more powerful engine, if that should be found advisable, which we fancy will be the case.”

The article ended, “To be concluded.”

Likewise, the New York Times covered the Exposition and urged its readers to get to the show before closing. Fancifully, they called the Autoplane, the “Curtiss Aerial Limousine”. Their reporting called the design the talk of the entire show: “More wonderful than the Rodman Wanamaker Flying Boat “AMERICA”, more interesting than the huge military planes is this unique and novel product of the inventive genius of Glenn H. Curtiss, — The Curtiss ‘Aerial Limousine.’ Since its unveiling on Thursday night at the Aero Show it has been the talk of New York. Epoch making in its conception and design, this wonderful aeroplane is a veritable drawing room on wings, a modern magic couch which can actually whisk you away with the speed of the wind. We urge you to see it before the Show closes next Thursday.”

The Curtiss Autoplane at the hangar prior at the time of its flight testing. Source: P.Bowers – Curtiss Aircraft 1907-1947; Putnam.

As it happened, despite best hopes of Flight and breathless reporting of the New York Times, the Curtiss Autoplane never flew. It did lift off the ground for short distances in testing, but apparently never made it out of ground effect. True flight proved impossible. More power was needed given the weight and poor aerodynamics of the fuselage and limited wing area. Even stacked three-high as a tri-plane design, the wings proved insufficient in lift, even if they were a design borrowed from the proven Curtiss Model L trainer. A reliable Curtiss OXX water-cooled V8 engine was employed — boasting 100 hp. This proved insufficient to get the Autoplane going fast enough to fly.

The further design work that the writers at Flight hoped would result never happened either. A couple of months after the Pan-American Aeronautical Exposition, where the design was first exhibited, the United States entered the Great War in Europe — this was World War I. Suddenly the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Co. found themselves busy with work from the US Army. They abandoned the effort to produce the Autoplane and proceeded with design work on what would become the company’s signature airplane — the Curtiss Jenny.

Nonetheless, at the time of the aeronautical show where the Autoplane was first exhibited, Glenn Curtiss filed a patent covering the design. Fifteen separate claims were made, each an individual innovation of its own right, and when combined together, it claimed the invention of the combination of the airplane and car for all time. The patent, filed on February 14, 1917, was awarded slightly more than two years later on February 18, 1919, entitled, “Autoplane. US 1294413 A”.

The EHang 184, a manned UAV that debuted at CES in January 2015. Photo Credit: EHang

Today, the idea of the “Flying Car” is again seen as part of a promising future that will free mankind from rush hour traffic. Rather than a conventional airplane-like design, however, the future appears to be more a quadcopter or other helicopter design. Perhaps the biggest challenge impeding the future of “Flying Cars”, however, won’t be technology, but rather piloting skill. On the other hand, with driverless cars and trucks now becoming the norm, is it all that unlikely that the pilotless “Flying Car” is that far in the future?

One promising design (pictured above) is the EHang 184, made not by airplane firm or an auto company, but by a proven radio-controlled model drone company. EHang describes their deisgn in a press release from January 2015 as, “the world’s first electric, personal Autonomous Aerial Vehicle (AAV) that will achieve humanity’s long-standing dream of easy, everyday flight for short-to-medium distances.”

Yes, that’s right — electric. Gasoline-powered engines, after all, are so 20th Century. If he were alive today, Glenn Curtiss would be amazed, perhaps even as much as we are.

]]>http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/05/the-curtiss-autoplane/feed/1http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/05/the-curtiss-autoplane/Weird, But Not Frenchhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/historicwings/~3/uR5n-ZaEJqk/
http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/05/weird-but-not-french/#commentsSun, 07 May 2017 10:30:08 +0000HWhttp://fly.historicwings.com/?p=9773This Week’s Hints to help you along:

Montana Senator Burton K. Wheeler, a well-known Democratic Party isolationist, was shocked by what the US Army Air Corps officer, a Captain by rank, pushed across the table into his hands. It was a small package, wrapped in light brown paper, and emblazoned with the title, “Victory Program”. He ripped it open and quickly skimmed the contents. These were the top secret war plans of the United States of America, containing the grand strategic outline for defeating Germany, Italy, and Japan.

It included production estimates, commitments in men and materiel, the shipping needed to support the deployment of men to England and the invasion of Europe, the number of air bases to be built in England, and even the strategy of the air war, detailing how strategic bombing would defeat Hitler’s Germany. Incredibly, the plan also included the rough location of where the US would invade continental Europe — the beaches along Normandy’s coast.

When he offered a copy of the “Victory Program” to the Senator, the Air Corps Captain explained that personally he was against America’s involvement in the war. Like Charles Lindbergh, he supported the America First movement, as did the plan’s main author, Major Albert C. Wedemeyer, US Army, a West Point graduate of 1919 who in 1941 lead the War Plans Division of the War Department. The officer wanted him to make use of the plan on Capitol Hill to help avert a potential war with Germany, Italy, and Japan.

The Senator, an anti-war activist, recognized at once the political value of what he had before him. To secure reelection for a third term in the previous year’s campaign, President Franklin D. Roosevelt had lied and hidden his war plans from the American people. The “Victory Program” was proof of it. While falsely claiming to be an advocate of peace and neutrality, the Senator realized that President Roosevelt had secretly ordered the preparation of a war plan that would take America chin deep into conflict within the year.

Albert C. Wedemeyer, US Army architect of the “Victory Program”; c. 1943

The Senator wasted no time. Even if President Roosevelt was a fellow Democrat, he broke ranks. He moved quickly to undercut Roosevelt by calling on Chesly Manly, the Chicago Daily Tribune’s Washington correspondent and another anti-war activist. Together, they went through the plan in person. They copied out the key sections and published the details in a major and lengthy article in the Chicago Daily Tribune, much to the embarrassment of the White House. The article played to America’s anti-war sentiment — in late 1941, 80% of Americans opposed entering the war.

Banner headline in the Chicago Daily Tribune on December 4, 1941.

Predictably, the majority of neutrality-minded Americans were outraged. Hearings were scheduled in the Congress and Senate. It seemed that Roosevelt had found himself facing a political crisis — exactly as the Montana Senator wanted. What rescued Roosevelt’s reputation from double-dealing and possible impeachment, however, wasn’t fancy political maneuvering or a cover-up. Rather, Roosevelt’s Presidency was saved by the Japanese.

By unlikely coincidence, the Chicago Daily Tribune had published the “Victory Program” on Thursday, December 4, 1941. The front page, top of the page headline blared provocatively, “F.D.R.’s War Plans!” The article spared no available column and went on for nearly three pages in the paper, offering provocative information and details of what was in the plan — even quoting the document directly with the actual numbers of troops and overall strategic outlook.

The next day, on Friday, the House and Senate were alive with debate and outrage on the issue. Papers highlighting key aspects of the war plan were held up to emphasize the points made. Numerous speeches condemned the President. Passages were quoted, including the plan’s demand to mobilize 10 million men in uniform. Then the weekend came and the debate was put on pause. That Sunday, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. On Monday, America declared war on Japan. On Thursday, December 11, Germany and Italy declared war on America, and America responded in kind. With that, World War II had begun.

Amidst the shock of the events of Pearl Harbor, it seemed that everyone forgot about the Chicago Daily Tribune’s publication of the “Victory Program” — everyone that is, except Adolph Hitler.

Full front page of the Chicago Daily Tribune newspaper.

Treason of the Highest Order

As one might imagine, the unauthorized leak of America’s top secret war plan had far-reaching consequences. The Senator’s decision to give the press the “Victory Program” and their decision to publish it did not keep America out of the war. As a political maneuver, the leak was a complete failure. While the debates on Capitol Hill reflected Friday’s public outrage, and while numerous other newspapers picked up the story and repeated the key points of the plan, the entry of America into World War II ended the debate.

Watching closely were Hitler’s emissaries in Washington, DC. Quickly, one of Germany’s key diplomats, the Chargé d’Affaires, Hans Thomsen, cabled Berlin with the details of what had been learned. It wasn’t long before they uncovered virtually all of the information in the top secret plan. In turn, Adolph Hitler was briefed in detail. Recognizing the threat, he ordered an immediate change in Germany’s military deployments.

Hitler demanded that extensive defenses be constructed along the beaches of Northern France. He ordered German industry to begin preparing weapons for the air defense of the Third Reich. He ordered additional anti-aircraft units be set up around German cities and key industries. He called for an increase in production and deployments of U-Boats for the Atlantic War, hoping to strangle England and eliminate America’s ability to turn England into an “island aircraft carrier”. He even advised his generals battling on the Eastern Front to change their strategy and take fewer risks, so that forces could be preserved for the battle on the Western Front — though he reversed that order soon thereafter.

When America declared war on Japan, it seems reasonable — though we’ll never know for sure — that Hitler weighed the full meaning of America’s “Victory Program” as a measure of the nation’s intent in his decision to proceed to declare yet another war — this time against the United States. Indeed, if war was inevitable anyway, why delay and risk the political damage that might result from betraying agreements with Japan, another Axis country? Thus, not only had the leaking of the plan failed to keep America out of the war, instead it almost certainly helped bring America into the conflict and transform the war into a truly global one — a “world war”.

The Benefits of Strategic Knowledge

Undoubtedly, the untimely leaking of the top secret “Victory Program” caused the deaths of many more Americans. Apprised with the strategic overview of America’s grand war strategy, the Germans would fight the entire war in Europe with the task only of verifying that America had continued to stick to its strategic plan — as drafted and leaked — and indeed it did. With every move, the “Victory Program” held true.

Indeed, much of the thinking in the “Victory Program” was enlightened and timely. That America had such a visionary approach to warfare came as a shock to the Germans — this alone is strong evidence of the extraordinary vision Major Widemeyer had in preparing the work. As it happened, the effort that had gone into preparing the plan was too great, and the time to change it was not available either. Further, to change it would have likely only reduced America’s chances of victory, since no alternatives were found to be superior.

For instance, the ground forces plan that Major Wedemeyer proposed involved the integration of air power in the planning, such that the German army would be pinned in place and denied logistical support while more maneuverable US forces could take advantage of enemy weakness. In looking back, we should remind ourselves that many of the armies of that era were training for an expected repeat of the trench warfare that had been seen in World War I.

Production and manpower alone wouldn’t do the trick — tactics and effective strategic organization were essential. To make his point, Major Wedemeyer stressed that, “Another million men in Flanders would not have turned the tide of battle for France.” Rather, he pointed out, had the French been better organized and integrated, as well as better commanded, the Germans would have had potentially failed in the conquest of France. In explaining the plan and the necessity of planning for the full logistical implementation of the war effort to a critic in the War Department, Major Widemeyer wrote, “It would be unwise to assume that we can defeat Germany by simply outproducing her. One hundred thousand airplanes would be of little value to us if these airplanes could not be used because of lack of trained personnel, lack of operating airdromes in the theater, and lack of shipping to maintain the air squadrons in the theater.”

In fact, Major Wedemeyer’s work was so broad and effective, that America never wavered from the overarching strategic vision laid out in his plan, despite numerous opportunities to do so. Why not invade in Southern France, by Marseilles? Why not focus the build up of air power along North Africa’s coast? Why not land forces along the fine beaches of northern Denmark and drive south, isolating the German armies in France from lines of supply and communications? Why not organize the army in a different manner? None of these options were taken because Major Wedemeyer’s “Victory Program”, despite being publicly leaked and compromised, continued ahead as the master plan for the entire war, though as events unfolded, the plan was continuously updated in its detailed components.

An aviation engineer battalion at working on a new airfield for American heavy bombers near Eye, England. Source: USAAF, c. 1942

Indeed, the Germans watched in awe as the seemingly impossible task of building over 100 airbases in England was completed. By early 1943, many squadrons of bombers and fighters were moving in and the air campaign commenced. In battle against the “Victory Program”, the Germans threw their daytime and night fighter air forces into the defense of the heartland. They watched as mass conscription was instituted in America — not only reaching the target number of 10,000,000 soldiers, but even going to more than 16,000,000 men in uniform.

Likewise, the Germans prepared for and fought back against military invasions in Africa and Italy, exactly as described in the “Victory Program”. They tried but ultimately could do nothing to stop the expansion of supply routes and the Lend Lease Program to support Russia and England. They documented massive shipbuilding programs — in the form of Liberty Ships — and saw how vast numbers of men were encamped and quantities of materiel were stockpiled in England for the invasion, exactly as written in the plan. In the face of overwhelming air power, exactly as described in the “Victory Program”, Germany steadily saw its air superiority eroded and then ultimately lost to America’s fleets of fighters and bombers.

B-24 Liberator bombers enroute to the target over Germany, c. 1944.

Multiple contracts for the construction of America’s four-engine bombers were issued, including for the B-17 Flying Fortress and B-24 Liberator. Again, Germany was powerless to stop America’s vast industrial might from building what became a “bomber an hour”. Auto industry factories in Detroit were pressed into service to launch the fleet of airplanes necessary to bring Germany to its knees — and the key figure who helped convert the auto factories to aviation plants was none other than one of the leaders of the America First pacifist movement, Charles Lindbergh.

In short order, the US War Department issued multiple contracts for new fighter planes to help attain air superiority over Europe — new designs were rushed into production, improving rapidly, even month to month, as modification after modification was made to enhance already competitive designs to the point where nothing in the Nazi arsenal could match the planes’ performance.

They prepared defenses on the beaches of Normandy to counter the Allied invasion force. That too took place exactly as written in the “Victory Program”, though behind schedule by a year from the date described in the plan — July 1943 — when the build up of Allied forces in England fell behind schedule. While the “Victory Program” had laid bare America’s expectation that the Russians would collapse by the end of 1942, that too hadn’t materialized, leaving Hitler furious with his generals and leaving his forces facing a two front war which could not be won.

Throughout, with the leaked “Victory Program” in hand, the Germans could focus their strategic response with relative confidence. Of course, despite all the countering moves the Germans put in place, ultimately nothing could save Germany from the overwhelming forces brought together by the Allies — particularly in terms of air power. Here, the “Victory Program” had spelled out the goals and strategies in detail — German cities and industrial centers would be bombed, massive waves of wing after wing of bombers and fighters would devastate German production capacity and terrorize the populace — and yet Germany was helpless to do anything but fight to an inevitable loss on a grand scale.

In the end, despite having the strategic knowledge of the “Victory Program” at hand, Germany stood no chance. The extraordinary industrial and manpower might of the USA was simply too much. Coupled with the Russians advancing on the Eastern Front, with American support and equipment, and then with the invasion of France in June 1944, Germany was bound for defeat.

Aftermath

As for what happened to the unknown US Army Air Corps Captain who released the plan, a study of history reveals that he escaped responsibility for his action. His identity was never revealed. That it was an Air Corps Captain who had leaked the war plan was disclosed after the war by Senator Wheeler. Afterwards, no effort was made to track down his identity and prosecute him. Most likely, the unknown Captain continued in his staff job, probably was promoted (perhaps even ending the war as with the rank of a Colonel, given the normal rapid promotion processes in wartime that favored prewar officers). Perhaps he continued to help crafting additional war plans and strategies. Most likely, he support the very war that he was so against before it started. Likewise, the Senator showed no remorse about his own role in leaking America’s top secret war plan to the press — despite that his identity was well-known, he escaped all responsibility.

In the end, both men got away with high treason — and the costs were measured in the losses of additional American lives. For the press, the publication of the “Victory Program” was deemed “the greatest scoop in history” — in actuality, it turned out to be most damaging leak in American history. In comparison, Wikileaks might be vast, but it is far less damaging.

As for Major Albert Wedemeyer, US Army, he was celebrated as the planning architect of the US war strategy for winning World War II. There seems little doubt that he was not behind the leak — a dedicated patriot, he had invested everything in the “Victory Plan” and knew that America’s survival as a nation depended on it. Due to his extraordinary accomplishments, he was promoted steadily in active duty. He then was sent to serve in China, ultimately commanding all US forces in the country.

In the lead up to the Korean War, he was once again called to action to plan for a potential war — his plan was so good that when it failed, it was widely assumed that the enemy, like it had with the “Victory Program”, had somehow attained a copy of it. Albert Widemeyer continued to serve in the Army until he reached the rank of Lieutenant General. On his retirement in 1954, he was given his fourth star. Late in life, in 1985, he was honored by President Ronald Reagan with the award of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

President Reagan spoke just these words, “As one of America’s most distinguished soldiers and patriots, Albert C. Wedemeyer has earned the gratitude of his country and the admiration of his countrymen. In the face of crisis and controversy, his integrity and his opposition to totalitarianism remained unshakeable. For his resolute defense of liberty and his abiding sense of personal honor, Albert C. Wedemeyer has earned the thanks and the deep affection of all who struggle for the cause of human freedom.”

On the morning of June 1, 1921, the Ku Klux Klan and the white population of Tulsa made their move. At the sound of three blasts from a siren, they stormed the city’s wealthy African-American district of Greenwood. Yet the defending African-American citizens were ready. It had been a tense night of preparation for the battle they knew would come. Greenwood was host to a prosperous, wealthy, and well-educated community, but they had watched with increasing concern as the KKK steadily rose in power. They knew they were in a fight for survival and they were committed to defend every block of the community they had built.

Both sides were well-armed. However, the KKK had one thing that the African-Americans did not — air power. The first aerial bombing in American history was in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It pitted Americans against Americans and it was a battle along racial lines.

The ruins of North Detroit Avenue, looking at Booker T. Washington High School, the ruins of the Greenwood district, and the remains of Mount Zion Baptist Church. Photographer Arthur Dudley. S1989.004.5.46, Special Collections, McFarlin Library, The University of Tulsa.

Seeds of Conflict

The all-night stand-off between the white and black communities in Tulsa had begun on May 31, 1921. Mobs of white men had gathered at the courthouse calling for the lynching of an African-American man interned inside. As it turned out, the man wasn’t so much imprisoned as being protected for an alleged crime that he did not commit. Sheriff McCullough, Tulsa’s chief law enforcement official, made his best effort to protect the young man and dissipate the anger. Despite several meetings, nothing cooled the murderous intent of the crowd.

As the day wore into evening, word of the white mob spread through the African-American community in Tulsa. The whites’ demand for the young man’s lynching was the product of the Ku Klux Klan, which had grown to 3,200 members in Tulsa. This was a city with a population of approximately 75,000. Tulsa County, including the city and surrounding areas, numbered about 110,000. Many whites were envious of the successes enjoyed on the “Black Wall Street”, the popular name for the African-American business district. Further, all they knew of the matter at hand was what had been in the Tulsa Tribune. That alone was alarming enough to incite widespread public anger.

As it happened, the newspaper story was little more than contrived falsehood. The “journalists”, who were perhaps associated with or at least influenced by the KKK, claimed that the young African-American had attempted to rape the 17 year old “orphaned” white woman. In actual fact, it was the black youth, Dick Rowland, who was the orphan. Along with his two sisters, he had been adopted by the Rowlands, a black family in Tulsa. The rest of the story was only very loosely based on the truth. The article even nicknamed the young man, “Diamond Dick”, a name carefully selected to create an image of the youth as a cocky, bejeweled street criminal prowling the streets and showing off.

Outraged at the prospect that a “pure white woman” might have been attacked by an African-American, an angry white mob gathered outside the courthouse where Rowland was being held. Word spread quickly in both communities, which, until then, had lived together mostly peacefully. Groups of African-American men came armed with rifles and pistols, stating that they were not there to fight, but rather to offer their help as volunteers to the white Sheriff, who was also intent on protecting the courthouse and the young man from the white mob outside.

From the article in the Tulsa Tribune on May 31, 1921, which apparently incited the rioting.

Twice, Sheriff McCullough sent the African-American volunteers away. He recognized that, even if their intent may have been to defend the young man and prevent him from being lynched by the angry mob, their very presence would likely only escalate the situation. His worry proved to have merit when on the second occasion, the white mob opened fire on the vastly outnumbered African-American men. The latter numbered perhaps 75, while the white mob numbered in the hundreds. As they were departing the area, some of the men in the white mob started the shooting. Two of the African-American men fell dead. The rest turned and fired back a devastating and concentrated volley. Some reports claim that as many as ten white men were killed. In the panicked moments afterward, the African-Americans withdrew to a position a few blocks away.

With nightfall, nothing seemed to cool the hotheads among the white mob. Not only was the young black youth still protected in the courthouse, but now a number of their own were shot dead. The KKK rallied and planned an all-out attack, intending to banish all of the African-Americans from Tulsa. The KKK sent out calls for their members to come and join the fight. For their part, the African-Americans vowed to defend their community from an assault they knew would soon come. The white mob vowed to get revenge for their losses and seize the young Dick Rowland and lynch him.

Who was Dick Rowland?

The young man at the center of the issue was named Dick Rowland. He was a 19 year old delivery man and shoe shiner, well-known in the community. His alleged crime was the “assault” of a white woman that supposedly had taken place on the 3rd floor of the Drexell Building in downtown Tulsa, when the young man entered the elevator. The white woman who was allegedly accosted, who was named Sarah Page, immediately denied any claim of “assault” and declined to press charges. Nonetheless, the newspaper published the account otherwise. In fact, it is entirely likely that Sarah Page and Dick Rowland knew each other fairly well, at least by sight — and perhaps even better than that.

The shoeshine business owner that employed Rowland had arranged that the company’s employees could use the “Colored” bathrooms that were located on the third floor of the Drexell Building. Sarah Page operated the elevator in the building. Thus, probably she saw Rowland at least a couple of times a day.

One African-American journalist, Mary E. Jones Parrish, later claimed that the so-called, “assault”, may have been that Rowland accidentally stepped on Page’s foot when boarding the elevator after using the bathroom upstairs. This caused her to cry out in pain. A clerk working the building on the floor ran to see what was happening. When Rowland saw the approaching clerk, he panicked and ran from the building. Like Page, the clerk too recognized Rowland by sight. The clerk immediately called the police to report the “crime”, probably over Sarah Page’s objection. It wasn’t long after that Rowland was arrested, reportedly at his home.

Whatever actually happened that day, on May 30, 1921, the news article that followed the next day was sensational. Dick Rowland was claimed in the article to have identified himself as “Diamond Dick”. The woman was stated in the news article to have seen him looking up and the down the halls in a suspicious manner before attacking her, ripping her clothes. Even the moniker, “Diamond Dick”, seems doubtful in retrospect, although the article claimed Rowland used that title to identify himself because of he allegedly wore layers of gold and diamond jewelry — the absurdity of that should have been obvious based on the pay rate of shoeshine boy and delivery man. The “assault” of the young “orphaned” women was claimed without any dissenting view.

Predictably, the article had an effect — the journalists were most probably looking for an incident to stir up trouble. For the KKK, the false claims in the newspaper gave them the pretext to get the support needed to launch a full-on assault of the African-American district in Tulsa.

Some say that Sarah Page and Dick Rowland may have had a secret, interracial relationship. If so, the “assault” was misreported — it seems more likely that the matter involved the aftermath of a lover’s fight. Others, including lawyers who regularly had their shoes shined by Rowland, knew the young man well. He was the adopted son of a local African-American businessman. Most simply knew that the charge couldn’t be true. Many of the city’s attorneys even commented as such. To their knowledge, Rowland simply wasn’t violent or aggressive at all. To have attacked a woman at all was simply too out of character to be believable in their experience.

Nonetheless, events quickly spiraled out of control. The main incitement came when the Tulsa Tribune supposedly blared a headline late on May 31 in the city edition of the Tulsa Tribune (recalled by residents later, but all copies have been lost) calling on the populace to, “To Lynch Negro Tonight.” The public went wild based on the “fake news”. The KKK rallied many to support their call for a public, if entirely extrajudicial lynching.

When dawn broke, the battle for Tulsa began.

As the first rays of sunlight touched the city, a siren blared three times as the signal to begin the attack. The first white man to rise in the charge was cut down when a defending African-American sniper hit him with a single shot from his rifle. A rallying cry went up and soon crowds of hundreds of white men charged forward, intent on rampaging through the streets of the African-American district of Tulsa. Many of these were members of the KKK.

The white mob pressed toward the center of the African-American community, at the center of which was their church, the Mount Zion Baptist Church. As they advanced, they were shooting any who stood in their way. They began setting fire to homes, meaning to burn all of the residences as well as the African-American business district. This area was so prosperous and successful that was locally known as the “Black Wall Street”. On the map, it is defined as the areas along Archer Street and Greenwood Avenue in downtown Tulsa.

The “Black Wall Street” district of Tulsa burns as thick black smoke fills the skies.

Not unexpectedly, resistance against the KKK-led white mob was fierce. A running street battle followed. Some of the homes were soon burning and many among the defenders were shot and injured. Some were killed. Many men stood guard to defend their homes, putting up stiff resistance on their as the white mob advanced, only to be finally shot and killed. Tulsa’s leading medical doctor died on his doorstep as he retreated into his house, firing back. Lawyers, business owners, family men, and workers battled at every house and corner.

The defending African-American community was vastly outnumbered, however. Soon many homes on the outer fringes of the district were burning and black smoke filled the air. The main street and commercial district of “Black Wall Street” and the community’s church, however, still remained beyond the reach of the advancing armed mob. The defenders were holding their ground, more or less, despite the vast numbers in the white mob.

The Oklahoma National Guard arrives in Tulsa; the truck that mounted a machinegun is seen in the lower left of this rare and unique photograph.

Almost from the start, the Governor of Oklahoma, Gov. Robertson, declared martial law. The Oklahoma National Guard was mobilized and quickly sent in to stabilize the situation. The forces deployed quickly under the command of Major L.F. J. Rooney, himself a veteran of World War I. Tulsa’s fire department tried to respond to the first fires but its engines were fired on by the white mob. They retreated, finding themselves prevented from entering the African-American districts and unable to fight the fires. The National Guard mounted its weapons and drove into the chaos, hoping to stabilize the situation. None of the official institutions of government were favoring the KKK, not the National Guard, nor the Sheriff, nor the fire department, mayor, or Governor of Oklahoma.

The National Guard mounted a machine gun on the flatbed of one of their small trucks and then drove into the Greenwood District. It was intended to be a show of force that would quell the riots. The mission did not fare well. First, the truck was fired upon by the white mob, which assumed correctly it was defending the African-American community. Then the truck retreated from the white mob and raced into the Greenwood District. There, it was fired upon by the African-American defenders who saw its coming heralded by the sound of heavy gunfire.

As the battle raged, white vigilante squads made “arrests” of dozens of African-Americans who attempted to get out of the city. Luckily, a massacre of those picked up was averted when the Oklahoma National Guard stepped in. The Guardsmen took those detained from the hands of the mob, sometimes literally at gunpoint. Those rescued were marched to holding areas. The wounded were carried to the hospital in the Greenwood District, but then evacuated when the white mob set it on fire.

A Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplane of the type that the US Army sold as surplus after the war, c. 1918. Photo Credit: Harrison S. Kerrick

Air Power Employed

With the attack on Tulsa less than an hour old, a group of pilots from Tulsa’s white community gathered at the nearby airport of Curtiss-Southwest Field. Almost certainly, these were the commercial flight crews working for the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company, a firm that had formed a year and a half earlier in 1919 and which, more or less, ran the airport of the same name. Curtiss-Southwest was the nation’s first commercial interstate air freight shipping business, though that honor is usually forgotten due to what they did that day. The company was also a dealer for the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company, selling surplus government planes and new models from the Curtiss company to the general public.

Advertising in the Oklahoma City Times, Friday, August 1, 1919, page 14.

Between them, the pilots prepared about a dozen or more light planes. These were surplus World War I Curtiss JN-4 Jenny training planes that had been purchased from the US Army Signal Corps after the end of the war. Curtiss-Southwest put these planes to work in its new airfreight business. Others were resold by the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company to the general public. The US Army sold the planes at a price of $1,500 each and Curtiss-Southwest marked up and resold the planes to willing buyers at a significant profit, charging between $2,500 and $4,000 each. Newly built models directly from the Curtiss factory went for $5,000 to $9,000, depending on the type of engine mounted.

Most of the planes that flew that day had served as trainers for America’s military pilots during the First World War. The company, while offering new planes to the public, itself was somewhat underfunded. As such, it flew only surplus, used US Army planes. Most of these had flown at the University of Texas military flight training program at Kelly Field, in San Antonio. Kelly Field had trained over 320 squadrons of pilots during the war. These Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplanes were the same type later made famous for barnstorming across much of middle America, putting on one-plane airshows and offering rides for a few dollars each.

Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplane trainers flying in formation from Kelly field, Texas; these would later be made surplus and sold to the general public; perhaps some of these very planes shown participated in the bombing of Tulsa. Photo Credit: US Army Air Service

With the riots in full swing, the pilots at Curtiss-Southwest Field didn’t have barnstorming or their usual oil business flying on their mind. Each pilot took an “observer” on board and, as some reports later claimed, loaded up their planes with balls of fabric soaked in turpentine. Matches were carried to light the incendiary balls on fire before dropping. They took off at 6:00 am, returning and refueling to fly additional missions later in the morning and in the early afternoon.

They employed the turpentine-soaked balls as makeshift “bombs”, or more properly “fire bombs”. With these, they hoped to start fires in the center of the African-American business district. In the first hours, those areas were beyond the reach of the still advancing mob, which was facing stiff defense from the African-American residents. It was a house-to-house fight, battled block by block. The height of the battle was centered on Standpipe Hill, a few blocks from the Mount Zion Baptist Church.

Once aloft, the pilots were guided by the first clouds of black smoke from the outskirts of the targeted area. It didn’t take long for them to fly the short distance to the center of Tulsa and arrive over the Greenwood District. They began orbiting together in a loose formation as the “observers” prepared their turpentine rag balls for the attack. Some of the “observers” also carried rifles aloft, intent on shooting any they saw below. A few carried sticks of TNT, which they lit and dropped as aerial bombs.

Mount Zion Baptist Church burns after seeing its roof set afire from the attacking biplanes.

One of the residents of the Greenwood District, Mary E. Jones Parrish, was a trained journalist. She later wrote that she and her neighbors heard the approaching roar of the aircraft engines. They looked out the windows of their homes to see what was happening. She then related, if perhaps a bit too poetically:

“…the sights our eyes beheld made our poor hearts stand still for a moment. There was a great shadow in the sky and upon a second look we discerned that this cloud was caused by fast approaching aeroplanes. It then dawned upon us that the enemy had organized in the night and was invading our district the same as the Germans invaded France and Belgium…. People were seen to flee from their burning homes, some with babes in their arms…. Yet, seemingly, I did not leave. I walked as one in a horrible dream.”

One of the planes spotted two men and their wives running across an open field and, swooping low, dropped a hail of lead balls or stones, hoping to kill them. They missed. Two of the four were identified as Dr. Payne and Mr. Robinson — the names of their wives were not recorded. They survived to later testify about the events.

In the hour or so that followed, each plane let loose their loads of these fire bombs from low altitude, setting them alight just before they were dropped. This was a dangerous thing to attempt from inside the cockpit of a wood, wire and fabric biplane, yet they were successful and none were burned. They targeted the neighborhoods, business district, and the Mount Zion Baptist Church. Mainly, they aimed for the flat rooftops of the buildings. Once the supply of firebombs were exhausted, those planes with rifles in the hands of the “observers” made low passes over the Greenwood District shooting at any they saw on the ground. They returned to the airfield for more firebombs, ammunition, and fuel.

During one low pass by a biplane, one of the men leaned out to take a shot. He was hit instead by return fire from an African-American sharpshooter. He was either killed by the bullet or died when he fell from the plane to the ground. Ten days later, the event was reported in several newspapers, including the Chicago Defender, which related, “One man, leaning far out from an airplane, was brought down by the bullet of a sharp shooter and his body burst upon the ground.”

Another made a pass and fired at two fleeing boys, who were shunted into a house and brought to safety by an older African-American woman. Hitting a pair of running boys from a handheld single-shot rifle in the cockpit of an airplane flying overhead is no easy feat. The plane did not circle back to shoot again. Soon firebombs were being tossed out of the planes onto the buildings below.

While they may not have had a great effect with their rifles, the firebombing proved devastating. As the flaming turpentine balls fell, the buildings across the Greenwood District soon were burning out of control. The fire department, being held back by the white mob, could do nothing but watch from a distance. As the fires intensified, many residents fled their homes, running for their lives. These too fell into the hands of wandering vigilante groups who were patrolling the outskirts of the District. The Mount Zion Baptist Church caught fire after a hail of well-placed firebombs.

Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplane trainers flying in formation over Kelly field, Texas; perhaps some of these very planes shown participated in the bombing of Tulsa. Photo Credit: US Army Air Service

Eyewitness Testimony of the Aerial Bombing

In the city center, one of the town’s most prosperous African-American men, a lawyer named Buck Colbert Franklin, who would later prove instrumental in the legal actions that followed the riots, wrote of his experience witnessing the aerial firebombing of Tulsa.

“I could see planes circling in mid-air. They grew in number and hummed, darted and dipped low. I could hear something like hail falling upon the top of my office building. Down East Archer, I saw the old Mid-Way hotel on fire, burning from its top, and then another and another and another building began to burn from their top.”

“Lurid flames roared and belched and licked their forked tongues into the air. Smoke ascended the sky in thick, black volumes and amid it all, the planes — now a dozen or more in number — still hummed and darted here and there with the agility of natural birds of the air.”

What he described was the volleys of turpentine-soaked rag balls falling on the rooftops of the buildings along “Black Wall Street”. He abandoned the building and made his way through the streets, remarking at the still burning aerial firebombs that marked the way.

“The side-walks were literally covered with burning turpentine balls. I knew all too well where they came from, and I knew all too well why every burning building first caught from the top. I paused and waited for an opportune time to escape. ‘Where oh where is our splendid fire department with its half dozen stations?’ I asked myself. ‘Is the city in conspiracy with the mob?’”

Another eyewitness, an African-American named Dr. R. T. Bridgewater, who served an assistant county physician, stated that he was “near my residence and aeroplanes began to fly over us, in some instances very low to the ground”. He added that he heard a woman say, “look out for the aeroplanes, they are shooting upon us.”

A white crowd involved in looting the Woods Building on the corner of Greenwood and Archer in Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street” area. Photographer unknown. 1989.004.5.52, Special Collections, McFarlin Library, The University of Tulsa

Later, the KKK wrote of its achievement in an article in a newspaper called, “The Nation”. The writer recounted:

“Then eight aeroplanes were employed to spy on the movements of the Negroes and according to some were used in bombing the colored section.”

The actual number was probably twelve to fourteen planes, but the KKK writer probably didn’t know that. Mr. W. I. Brown, a porter with the Katy Railroad company, arrived to Tulsa with the National Guard. He reported:

“We reached Tulsa about 2 o’clock. Airplanes were circling all over Greenwood. We stopped our cars north of the Katy depot, going towards Sand Springs. The heavens were lightened up as plain as day from the many fires over the Negro section. I could see from my car window that two airplanes were doing most of the work. They would every few seconds drop some thing and every time they did there was a loud explosion and the sky would be filled with flying debris.”

With their stores of fire bombs and TNT exhausted, the planes turned again toward a landing at Curtiss-Southwest Field. Some fanned out into the surrounding countryside, looking for those fleeing the city. One of the biplanes spotted a group of fleeing African-Americans and dove to attack, firing on them with the rifle that the “observer” carried. One man was killed, his name was recorded later as probably Ed Lockard. He died from a bullet to the back of the neck. That attack took place between six and eight miles from Tulsa.

Detainees being housed in McNulty Park. Photographer Joseph Hause. 1989.004.5.23, Special Collections, McFarlin Library, The University of Tulsa.

Detention Centers

At the height of the rioting, Mayor Evans and Governor Robertson set up detention centers outside the district to hold those saved from the vigilante gangs of white men. One detention center was located at the Tulsa Convention Hall on 105 West Brady Street. Another center was set up at McNulty Baseball Park, located between Ninth and Tenth Streets on Elgin Avenue. In addition, the oil fairgrounds at Lewis Avenue and Federal (Admiral) Boulevard were pressed into service. Approximately 6,000 African-Americans were detained during the day of the riots and in the days that followed.

When the day ended, all that remained of the Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” were burnt out neighborhoods. A few stragglers walked amidst the smoking homes and businesses. These too were rounded up by the National Guard. Some of those detained were held for up to eight days — none were ever charged with a crime. On release, they were given identity cards to present in the event that they wanted free passage into white neighborhoods or business districts. On returning to their neighborhoods all they could do was look on hopelessly at the devastation that had been wrought. The Red Cross provided tents and some basic supplies for subsistence.

Aftermath of the Riots

In the aftermath of the burning of Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street”, hundreds of African-Americans fled the city and never came back. At the railway station, employees reported that hundreds of one-way tickets were sold. Trains were filled to capacity. Tulsa’s African-American community, which had achieved the American Dream and had built one of the most prosperous communities in the entire United States — white or black — was deeply wounded. “Black Wall Street” would be rebuilt, but it would take years. The scars from that day’s rioting remain to this day.

The story of how it happened, however, was quietly swept under the rug. For decades, nobody mentioned it. It wasn’t taught in schools. It wasn’t acknowledged by the State of Oklahoma or the city. It was only in recent years many in Tulsa learned what happened on that fateful day in 1921 when the city and State reversed positions and published the story.

Ruined buildings along the main street, the so-called “Black Wall Street”, showing the clear signs of having burned down from the top, where rafters and debris fall into the building center, rather than fall outward, as when burned or exploded from below at street level.

It seems clear that without the aerial bombing, much of the African-American community in Tulsa would probably not have burned so completely. The damage would have been extensive, but with the firebombing, it totaled an estimated $23 million ($310 million in inflation corrected values). Homes, businesses, schools, and even the Mount Zion Baptist Church had all burned to the ground, though the steeple remained. Like a symbol of hope, it towered over the burned out streets. In all, 35 city blocks were destroyed. Fully 1,256 residences were simply gone.

The destruction was staggering — in all, 21 churches and 20 grocery stores were burned, as well as two banks, a hospital, the post office (a Federal government building), and more than 600 businesses. Over 4,000 residents were left homeless. The number of dead is still unknown but may have been up to 300 — the Red Cross, which mobilized afterward, claimed that number. Others put the figure at less than 100. Many more were injured.

The devastation was so vast that it wouldn’t be until World War II with the bombings of Chongqing, Berlin, Hamburg, and Tokyo that such damage would be visited again upon an urban area. The makeshift firebombs, as turned out, were extraordinarily effective. During the rioting, homes and businesses were looted and even years later, the effects of that were felt. As the lawyer, Buck Colbert Franklin, wrote: “For years black women would see white women walking down the street in their jewelry and snatch it off.”

Buck Colbert Franklin, at right, the African-American lawyer who would later pave the way for the reconstruction, sits in a Red Cross tent after the riots.

In his capacity as a lawyer, Buck Colbert Franklin, the survivor of the riots who wrote about leaving his office amidst the hailstone-sounds of the burning turpentine balls, later took on major role in the rebuilding of the community. Incredibly, just six days after the firebombing, on June 7, 1921, the KKK convinced locally elected city council officials to pass a fire code law that barred the African-Americans from rebuilding their businesses.

Buck Colbert Franklin put his legal training to the task and filed suit, claiming it was wrong — in fact, his case was sound. The KKK and other white developers sought to secure the cleared properties for themselves, illegally barring the return of the former residents, since none could rebuild. They had many friends in the courts and most would have given up — but not Franklin. He fought and watched as his case was defeated first in the lower courts based on the influence of the KKK. Next, he battled up through multiple appeals to ever higher courts. One by one, each ruled against him, reflecting the hidden power of the KKK. Franklin filed his final appeal with the Oklahoma Supreme Court. There, finally above the reach of the KKK, a full review of law and his pleadings were undertaken. He prevailed completely. The fire code law was declared unconstitutional and stricken in its entirety. With that, the rebuilding of the Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” could finally begin — it was a process that had taken several years in the courts.

Some of the 35 city blocks that burned during the riots in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Pilots and Planes

The pilots and “observers” who flew that day and dropped their homemade firebombs were never officially identified. Almost certainly, they were the very men who flew for the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company. They were never arrested, fined, or even sanctioned in any way. Their planes were not impounded either. The Civil Aviation Authorities, the Governor of Oklahoma, and the Mayor simply looked the other way. Although they had not supported the white rioters, they knew not to mess with the KKK. No investigation followed.

The greatest irony came that afternoon when the Tulsa police hired the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company to fly an aerial survey of the burning Greenwood District so they could assess the damage. The pilots complied, of course, getting paid to carry police officers over the District to see the very damage they themselves had caused. They got away with murder and massive property destruction — and even got paid afterward to document their evil work.

Duncan McIntyre, chief pilot of the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company; he almost certainly did not participate in the firebombing, though his pilots did. Photo Credit: Tulsa Air and Space Museum

Today, we can only guess at their identities. They were almost certainly the company pilots. Among many, one pilot appears to be innocent — it seems doubtful that they were led into the air that day by the company’s chief pilot, Duncan A. McIntyre. He was from New Zealand and, as such, was unlikely to have been supportive or involved in any way. He had been previously an expert barnstorming pilot who flew for a time in the Pacific Northwest before moving to Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was not a member or supporter of the KKK.

We know only a few of the other names of the pilots employed at the company. One was John L. Moran — he is listed as an employee in January 1920, in an article that appeared in the Houston Post. Another, W. E. Campbell, was listed in 1919 as the company manager and a pilot. Another man is identified as Mr. B. L. Humphries. He was described as the company president in a newspaper article dating from October 1919. It is unclear, however, if he was a pilot at the time. Another pilot was named Mr. B. Goode. He is cited in the Barber County Index, a newspaper in Kansas, as a pilot of the company in March 1920. Two other pilots, “Happy” Bagnall and Bert Isason are named as working for the company in an article in the Houston Post on February 23, 1920. The others have faded into anonymity with the passage of time. Which, if any, of these men named here participated in the attack is unknown, though the company didn’t have many pilots. Therefore, at least some, if not most of these named were likely to have been involved.

Identifying the individual aircraft that were used is also difficult, if not impossible. In 1921, private aircraft were not yet required to be registered with the civil aviation authorities. That practice would begin in the years after. Even so, those records would show little more than the company name, which we know already anyway. We have no records to identify which planes were involved, such as by manufacturing number. What we do know, however, is that Curtiss-Southwest Field had just 13 planes — all were Curtiss JN-4 Jenny biplanes. One researcher claims that a four-seat, closed cockpit Stinson Detroiter was also at the field, though based on production dates — the first flight of the type was in 1926 — that could not have been possible.

Ad in the Morning Tulsa Daily World newspaper from November 16, 1919, for an airshow put on by the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company in Tulsa — ironically, the event promises a “Bombing Raid”.

Another plane involved was later identified as owned by the so-called, “St. Clair Oil Company”. More probably, this was the plane of the Sinclair Oil Company. That biplane, also a Curtiss Jenny, was otherwise used for aerial surveys and mapping of the oil fields. Further, the Sinclair Oil Company is known to have provided fuel to the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company. Their plane, probably purchased from Curtiss-Southwest, was based at the same field. The only other aircraft within the area was at a nearby field, Paul Arbon Air Field. It was also a Curtiss Jenny. Most likely, however, it did not participate in the attack as there were no reports of any flight activity from that field that day.

That the Sinclair Oil company biplane was employed in the attack is stated in a lawsuit filed two years later. The lawsuit demanded reparations for houses that were burned down (this was the suit that called the owner, “St. Clair Oil Company”). Notably, there were no other aircraft in the area that could have reached Tulsa that day, including private aircraft. Thus, based on the number of planes flying, we can paint a very strong case against the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company’s remaining thirteen Curtiss Jenny biplanes and the one plane from Sinclair Oil as being the culprits. Put simply, there were simply no other planes around Tulsa to have flown that day, nor pilots whatsoever.

The lawsuit evidence on the Sinclair Oil plane is plain. Case No. 23, 331 states flatly:

“The St. Clair Oil Company, a corporation, did, at the request and insistence of the city’s agents, and in furtherance of the conspiracy, aforementioned and set out, furnish airplanes on the night of May 31, 1921, and on the morning of June 1, 1921, to carry the defendant’s city’s agents, servants, and employees, and other persons, being part of said conspiracy and other conspirators. That the said J.R. Blaine, captain of the police department, with others, was carried in said airplane which dropped turpentine balls and bombs down and upon the houses of the plaintiff.”

Thus, we surmise that at least one of the city’s police department, a Captain named J. R. Blaine, personally was involved in the attack — if the pleadings are to be believed. His name is somewhat in doubt, however, though a similar name appears in the county records of police officers at the time. Regardless, it seems that at least one police captain served as an “observer” on the Sinclair Oil biplane and dropped incendiaries on the residential areas of the Greenwood District.

That the Curtiss-Southwest Airplane Company’s planes were involved was confirmed further by one of those who escaped the riots, the same African-American woman journalist, Mary E. Jones Parrish. While fleeing the city, she recounted passing an airfield and seeing, “planes out of their sheds, all in readiness for flying, and these men with high-powered rifles getting into them.” There were no other airfields anywhere within 200 miles of Tulsa that had served more than one airplane, nor any others that had hangars, what she called, “sheds” — she could only be describing Curtiss-Southwest Field.

An African-American man stands before the ruins of his home in Tulsa after the firebombing.

Final Words

Despite all the evidence, there are still those who dispute the use of airplanes to firebomb Tulsa that day. One who has researched the matter extensively is Richard S. Warner. His opinion was formed when he undertook a study as part of an official project funded to research the effects of the riots on Tulsa and what reparations might be paid. He claims that the use of aircraft in the attack is overstated:

“It is within reason that there was some shooting from planes and even the dropping of incendiaries, but the evidence would seem to indicate that it was of a minor nature and had no real effect in the riot. While it is certain that airplanes were used by the police for reconnaissance, by photographers and sightseers, there probably were some whites who fired guns from planes or dropped bottles of gasoline or something of that sort. However, they were probably few in numbers.”

If his claim has merit, the case of Tulsa is interesting — details are many, while the overall picture is difficult to yet completely understand. Aircraft were certainly used and they undoubtedly set many fires. Many reported shooting from the airplanes at people on the ground. Some even claimed that the airplanes turned the tide of the battle; they note that for nearly two hours, the African-American defenders of their neighborhoods had held out successfully. With the firebombing, however, the defense fell quickly and a rout began. Amidst the flames, the citizens of the Greenwood District scattered in the face of the advancing white mob and chased by a dozen airplanes overhead.

Contemporary photograph of the damage done, from one of the local newspapers at the time of the riots. Click to expand for closer examination.

Years later, the airport called Curtiss-Southwest Field was closed down and dismantled. Today, nothing remains of the old airfield or its two hangars. The area where it was located is at Apache Street and Memorial Drive in Tulsa. Not even a plaque marks the spot from where the first bombing of an American city was launched.

Sadly, most of the insurance claims filed by the residents and business owners for the damage done were denied at the time. The policies were either not honored outright (probably a sign of racism) or contained riders that exempted damage from what amounted to a “force majeure” event. Predictably, a flurry of lawsuits followed; due to the influence of the KKK, it appears that most were unsuccessful.

In the Tulsa riots, America showed its darkest side. For years, Oklahoma sought to suppress any mention of the riots. It was only in 1996, on the 75th anniversary of the riots, that the state finally included mention of the riots in the official histories. As for Dick Rowland, he was never charged with a crime. He survived the riots under the protection of the Sheriff and lived the rest of his life in freedom. Sarah Page, deeply troubled at the events that were taken in her name, left Tulsa on the train — to where, nobody knows.

Apparently, she never came back.

Tulsa burns during the height of the race riot on June 1, 1921.

One Last Bit of Aviation Trivia

The firebombing of Tulsa’s African-American Greenwood District and “Black Wall Street” gave rise to two aviation-related philosophies in the African-American community. The first was espoused by the radical followers of Marcus Garvey. They called for African-American men to train as pilots and prepare for a coming race war. The followers of Garvey believed that a final battle would be fought both in the air, at sea, and on the ground. The vision was simple — if African-Americans did not arm themselves with the latest technologies, they would surely die; the battle to come would be apocalyptic. They saw it as a fight to the death, where afterwards only one of the two “races” would survive. Garvey called for the community to start building battleships, airplanes, and tanks.

The second vision of African-American involvement in aviation was more peaceful in its focus — critically, it was also less expensive. This view was popularized by newspaper writers of popular African-American bureaus, such as the Chicago Defender, Pittsburgh Courier, New York Age, and Baltimore Afro-American. This approach highlighted the commercial value of aviation and sought to play down the military uses of airplanes. African-Americans should become pilots, in this school of thought, because it would foster social change and drum out stereotypes that blacks were incompetent, unable to master sophisticated technologies, lacked ambition, and were easily frightened. African-American involvement in aviation would bring real democracy to America, so they claimed.

Over time, this second vision won out. The seeds of African-American involvement in aviation were thus planted after the devastation of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Ultimately, this vision would culminate too in the legacy of the Tuskegee Airmen of World War II. The example set also helped give rise to the non-violence of Martin Luther King, Jr., in the 1960s struggle for equality in America.

The two USAFE F-84E Thunderjets made a beeline toward the border between West Germany and Czechoslovakia. At the border, they turned left to a northerly heading of 320 degrees. Lieutenant Warren G. Brown and his wingman, Lieutenant Donald Smith, held close formation as the pair climbed through 13,000 feet of altitude. Both pilots scanned the skies for the bogeys that had been reported by US radar. Suddenly, Lt. Brown saw them — two silver specs flying a mile away coming at them from above and nearly straight ahead He punched the transmit button on his stick and called to Lt. Smith, “We’ve got a couple of strangers at one o’clock.”

Lt. Brown had tangled with MiG-15s before and recognized them immediately. Then, he had flown an F-86 Sabrejet in the skies of the Korean War. “They’re MiGs!” he shouted into the radio. Seconds later, the pair of planes flashed past. Both were already in a tight turn to cut behind the two of USAFE fighters. The F-84Es were no match for the MiGs in a turning fight. One of the MiG-15s latched onto the tail of Lt. Smith.

“You’ve got a bogey at 5:30!” Lt. Brown shouted in warning to Lt. Brown. However, the second MiG was coming around onto his own tail. He pulled hard into a turn and the two F-84Es were at once separated. Things were turning rapidly sour.

Even if there was no war, nobody knew what the Russians and their satellite states would do. Joseph Stalin, the leader of the Soviet Union, had died less than a week before. Nobody knew what that might mean for the next generation of Soviet leaders. It seemed that “the Reds” might want to make a point.

The date was March 10, 1953.

F-84E Thunderjets from a sister unit, the 526th Fighter Bomber Squadron, parked on the ramp in 1951. Photo Credit: USAF

Set-Up for a Tangle

With the death of Stalin, everyone recognized that the transition to new leadership after Stalin’s death would be a delicate time. USAFE was to fly routine interception missions and border patrols. In the southern sector of West Germany, the task fell to the 53rd Fighter Bomber Squadron, which was part of the 36th Fighter Bomber Wing based out of Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base in Bavaria. Two of the squadron’s F-84E Thunderjets were sitting ready that morning to scramble in case any US early warning radar systems picked up any aircraft along the Czechoslovakian border.

Aerial navigation chart showing Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base and its proximity to Munich, Germany.

The 36th Fighter Bomber Wing held the line along the southern end of so-called “Iron Curtain”. The Cold War was tense but was not a shooting war. Nonetheless, Czechoslovakian and USAFE planes patrolled across the border within sight of one another. Usually, it was USAFE intercept the Czechoslovakians, since the latter as yet lacked the radar systems to detect and track USAFE planes in the sector.

That morning in the cockpits of the two ready planes were Lieutenant Warren Brown, USAFE, 30 years old, from Denver, Colorado; and his wingman, Lieutenant Donald Smith, USAFE, 24 years old, from Marysville, Ohio. Their planes were armed and ready for “routine” interceptions, carrying drop tanks. The Czechoslovakian planes were considered possibly hostile, given that they were in the Soviet Bloc, though no actual combat had yet taken place.

Usually, the Czechoslovakians would take off, get detected by US early warning radars, and USAFE would order a scramble. A pair of USAFE fighters would take off to intercept, usually F-84E Thunderjets. Once at the border, the two sets of planes would cautiously eye one another at a distance, staying on their respective sides.

Typically, the Czechoslovakians flew older Avia S-199s, a Jumo-powered version of the World War II era Messerschmitt Me 109G. That older propeller-driven fighter was no match for USAFE’s newer jet fighters, which included both F-80 Shooting Stars and F-84E Thunderjets. Sometimes, the Czechoslovakian Air Force would fly their newer MiG-15 fighter jets on training flights. These aircraft, which the Czechoslovakians designated the S-102, had just been received the previous year. As such, the pilots were still fairly inexperienced in their use, though it was recognized that the Czechoslovakian pilots were generally disciplined and quite capable. Typically, if the Czechoslovakians were flying their Avia S-199s, once intercepted they would keep their distance.

Czechoslovakian MiG-15 UTI, c. early 1950s.

If they flew their MiG-15s, after a short while, they would turn back to their bases due to limited fuel. Then the USAFE flight would return to base and land. To ensure that the USAFE planes could go the distance, they always carried wing tanks for extra fuel. USAFE also had a tendency to “push the border” and it was common for fighters to simply fly a straight line along the demarcation line, even if the actual border line wasn’t straight at all. Thus, they would often cross into Czechoslovakian territory where the border line jutted out into West Germany. They figured that without radar, the Czechoslovakians either wouldn’t care or wouldn’t know.

That morning, however, the two sides did more than just eye each other at a distance. A fight was brewing.

SCRAMBLE!

At 10:40 am, the USAFE radio came alive with the order to scramble for an intercept. A pair of aircraft had been spotted on the Czechoslovakian side, heading toward West Germany’s border. As it turned out, the two Czechoslovakian aircraft were MiG-15s that had taken off from their base at Líních, an airfield near Dobran. The lead plane was flown by Lt. Jaroslav Sramek. His wingman was Lt. Milan Forst. The two were intending to practice intercepts and air combat maneuvering, with Lt. Forst making the first pass on Lt. Sramek’s MiG, and then switching roles so that Lt. Sramek would make a pass on Lt. Forst, then switching roles again.

On the ground at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base, Lieutenants Brown and Smith got their engines started. They quickly taxied to the runway and Lt. Brown rammed his throttle forward. Lt. Smith followed suit on his wing. The pair took off straight ahead and were airborne at 10:45 am. Quickly, they pulled up their landing gear and turned to fly toward the border, climbing steadily as they increased their speed. They checked in on the radio and got a report that the two Czechoslovakian planes were nearing West Germany.

An F-84E Thunderjet of the 23d Fighter Bomber Squadron, also part of the same wing that flew out of “Fursty” at that time; this is the personal plane of Wing Commander Col. Robert L. Scott, USAF.

Reaching the border a few minutes later, they turned to a northerly heading of 320 degrees and began to scan the skies for the other aircraft. The time was 10:59 am. The two American pilots assumed that the two Czechoslovakian planes were fighters — what type, however, was uncertain. When Lt. Brown saw the two and recognized them to be MiG-15s, it was already too late to fly to a point of advantage. The Czechoslovakians were already across the border and, what was worse, they passed and quickly reversed to get onto the tails of the two F-84E Thunderjets.

Both USAFE pilots pulled into a hard turn, expecting the MiG-15s to break off and make a run back to their border. However, the two Czechoslovakian pilots did not break away — instead, they stayed with the F-84Es and tightened their turn to try and cut inside. The engagement quickly became a turning battle as both sides tightened in to try to advantage the other. The MiG-15s, however, had the upper hand, having an advantage in altitude and generally being better in a turn than the F-84E.

Dogfight over the Iron Curtain

Lt. Brown pulled on the stick as hard as he could in hopes of disallowing the MiG-15 on his tail a deflection shot. His F-84E made three turns in the sky but the MiG-15 not only stayed on him, but closed the gap. Not expecting a fight with the Czechoslovakians, Lt. Brown had not punched off his wingtip fuel tanks, a mistake that further worsened the performance of his plane. Still, he did not truly expect the Czechoslovakian planes to fire on his plane — after all, he was confident that they were on the German side of the border. Likewise, he was sure that the Czechoslovakian military did not want to start a shooting war so soon after the death of Stalin.

Meanwhile, in the cockpit of the Czechoslovakian MiG-15 fighter, Lt. Jaroslav Sramek (later Colonel), knew that he had the advantage over the American fighter plane. Whether by navigational error or by plan, Lt. Sramek knew that the American fighters were over Czechoslovakia, not West Germany. His orders were clear — he was to engage with his guns firing, first to fire a warning shot and attempt to force the American plane to land, and if it did not cooperate, he was to shoot it down.

Later, he recounted the engagement as follows: “It happened on that day over the village of Merklín [near Pilsen], I spied a pair of planes, which were not ours. They were F-84s. They were clearly encroaching on our airspace. I reported the situation and I received orders to fire a warning shot. There was no other possibility of apprehending them. I was to detain them and get them to listen to my instructions. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out like that.”

The Czechoslovakian pilots had spotted the two USAFE interceptors first and had turned toward them to make an intercept of their own. They pulled hard into a turn even as they were crossing the American F-84Es so as to get behind them. Both MiG-15s were at full throttle. Once behind the F-84E, Lt. Sramek pulled hard to get into firing position as he called on his radio for authorization to fire. It was quickly granted.

“Straight away they tried to evade us,” Lt. Sramek later reported. “But because the MIG 15s were better the F-84s, we were able to turn easily and manoeuvre into a position where I could fire a warning shot.”

On board the F-84E, Lt. Brown recalled what happened next as follows — “I glanced over my left shoulder and saw I had a MiG on my own tail. I tightened up my turn and made three complete 360 degree turns. I didn’t think he’d shoot at me over the U.S. Zone or I would not have been in that situation. I would have dropped my tip tanks. The MiG kept turning with me. I didn’t want to make any hostile moves. I just kept tightening my turn as much as possible. When I looked back again he was closed in to less than a thousand feet — maybe 500. Suddenly, I saw his guns spurting balls of orange fire. All his guns were blazing. I turned around and pressed against the armor plating for protection. Suddenly the whole airplane shuddered and flipped over, almost on its back. I didn’t know where he hit me because I could still control the plane.”

Lt. Sramek’s view of the combat was similar — “The warning shot hit his extra fuel tank (wingtip tank) on the right-hand side. Fuel started escaping from it. He tried to escape to the south.”

Some damage was done and Lt. Brown later recalled, “I was just recovering, not having much difficulty in bringing the plane out of its dive when I got the orange overheat light. It flashes on when the engine overheats. I thought maybe my tailpipe was cracked and pulled back the throttle to ‘idle’. I yelled to Smith, ‘I’ve been fired at. I’ve been hit!’”

For Lt. Sramek, the chase was simple. The F-84E Thunderjet was straight ahead and was flying in a straight line, heading south, without turning. He closed rapidly from directly behind. What he didn’t know was that Lt. Brown had lost sight of him and was preoccupied with the damage he had already suffered. Lt. Sramek closed rapidly.

Lt. Brown had not only lost sight of the Czechoslovakian MiG, but also of his wingman. “Then my overheat light blinked out. I looked back to see if my MiG was still behind. I couldn’t see him but I saw my right stabilizer was pretty well shot off. I figured I might still make it back to ‘Fursty’ so I called Smith again for a heading….”

Lt. Smith had lost his MiG and quickly called a heading back so that Lt. Brown could start his flight back to base. Then, he spotted Lt. Brown’s plane and also saw the Czechoslovakian MiG-15 closing in from above and behind. It was too late for him to even call a warning break. It was 11:03 am — four minutes had elapsed since the two MiG-15s had been sighted.

Lt. Sramek was directly on the F-84E’s tail and slightly above and closing rapidly at 600 kts airspace. He was lined up perfectly for a shot and once in close range, he simply pulled the trigger. He later recalled, “In view of the fact that I was higher than him I was able to catch him easily and my second round disabled him. After firing the shot I saw flames coming from his craft.”

The F-84E was hit badly. Lt. Brown recalled the moment with clarity — “Everything went kaputt at once. The airplane began vibrating violently and I got the orange overheat light again. My right wing suddenly opened. Pieces of skin flew off and smoke or vapor poured out of the hole. I didn’t know whether I was on fire or what, but I figured it was about time to part company with the airplane.”

Lt. Sramek could see flames coming from the back of the stricken F-84E and knew it would not last long. He turned left into a climbing turn to head back to his base. He fully expected that the wreckage of the F-84E crashed would be recovered by Czechoslovakian ground forces and that the American pilot captured.

Lt. Milan Forst, Czechoslovakian Air Force, who that day chased and nearly caught the second F-84E Thunderjet.

Ejecting to Safety

The entire rear half of Lt. Brown’s plane was aflame. He pulled the canopy release handle and once it had popped off, he reached to pull the ejection seat handles. Instantly, the rockets fired and he was out of the plane, punched high above his stricken Thunderjet on the ejection seat.

Once clear and out, knowing he was at low altitude, he reached for the D-ring to pull his ‘chute, but then realized he was still stuck to the ejection seat. Kicking it free, he then pulled the D-ring and felt the parachute open. Moments later, he came down into some trees, cutting his face slightly. Otherwise, he was uninjured. Shortly afterward, a group of German villagers came upon him and directed him where to walk to find the nearest village.

His stricken F-84E Thunderjet plowed into a snow-covered hillside near the village of Falkenstein, about 22 miles (35 km) inside West Germany. It was destroyed on impact.

Visibly shaken, Lt. Warren Brown, USAFE, smokes a cigarette; his bandaged ear is a minor injury sustained while ejecting from the F-84E. In the background is Lt. Donald Smith, USAFE, his wingman that day, who returned to base safely.

Meanwhile, the other MiG-15, flown by Lt. Forst, was still hunting the second F-84E Thunderjet that was flown by Lt. Smith. Suddenly, Lt. Forst spotted the other F-84E Thunderjet flash by above and head of him. He turned to pursue but lost it when it entered into cloud. Lacking radar systems (such systems would only come on later generation fighter jets), there was no way Lt. Forst could find the plane again.

Lt. Forst searched the area or a short time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the retiring F-84E. At speeds in excess of 600 kts, however, it only took a few minutes before the two planes were more than a dozen miles apart. Lt. Forst never saw the second F-84E Thunderjet again. Finally after reporting that he had lost contact, at 11:09 am he too was called back to return to base.

Lt. Jaroslav Sramek looks on proudly as a ground crew member paints a kill marking on the side of his MiG-15. Photo Credit: Roman Scherks, Czech Republic, by Permission — www.modelyletadel.cz

Aftermath

In later years, the Czechoslovakians would declare that the air battle had taken place over their territory near the village of Merklín. They claimed that the F-84E, once hit, had continued flying for a time into West Germany before crashing. The Americans would maintain that the entire engagement had taken place over West Germany, which they claimed was proven by their radar.

One possibility that remains possible is that the USAFE planes pushed their luck and crossed into Czechoslovakian airspace, whether by plan or by accident it is hard to know. Once the F-84E Thunderjets had engaged the Czechoslovakian MiG-15s, it seems clear that they turned toward their base. They likely crossed back into West Germany. At the speeds they were flying — 600 kts — that meant that they were crossing 10 miles a minute. While in the chase, the two MiG-15 pilots may have gotten fixated on their targets and lost awareness of their location, particularly once Lt. Sramek was in his tail chase with the F-84E that he ultimately shot down. As such, they may have also been mistaken and pursued the Americans across and onto the wrong side of the border.

Lt. Forst admitted as much when he was later interviewed and reported, “We flew over nearly continuous layer of clouds, through which only occasionally we saw flashing by a piece of land. At this time, we were not much interested in our location as the main thing was not to lose sight of the foreign aircraft.”

Weather records report that at the time it was clear on the Czechoslovakian side of the border, but had at least 8/10 cloud cover on the West German side, lending significant evidence to the scenario that the initial encounter had taken place on the Czechoslovakian side of the border but that the shoot down had taken place over West Germany. Of course, the F-84E also crashed in West Germany.

F-84E Thunderjet at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base, c.1952. Credit: USAF

Ultimately, it seems that nobody will ever know for sure where the dogfight began, but it almost certainly ended over West Germany since the wreckage was recovered fully 22 miles from the border. A local farmer who witnessed the crash of the F-84E also reported that he heard the gunfire from the MiG-15 seconds before. Finally, the end of the engagement played out at low altitude.

The F-84E Thunderjet was written off as destroyed in the crash. Its identification numbers were F-84E-5-RE s/n 49-2152. USAFE attempted to paint the situation in a positive light and issued a statement that read, “The fact that one of them was shot down was due to faulty manoeuvring plus the superior speed of the MIGs, but the incident proved that our radar warning; system to effective and that our fighters can be up in the air to intercept intruders within minutes.”

One Final Note

The Americans and NATO were not wrong that the Soviets meant to pick a fight, perhaps to demonstrate that they were still an aggressive, capable opponent even with the passing of Joseph Stalin. Just two days after the loss of the F-84E, the Russians crossed the border into West Germany farther north in the British Zone. Two of their new MiG-15 fighters intercepted a British bomber that was flying toward Berlin in the approved corridor. The bomber, an older RAF AVRO Lincoln (RF531 “C”), was a training plane assigned to the Central Gunnery School. At the time, it was flying a routine radar reconnaissance flight. The four-engine AVRO Lincoln was no match for the Soviet jets, who simply attacked it without warning. On the first firing pass, they damaged it badly. The AVRO Lincoln began a dive, already on fire. Rather than let it go, both MiG-15s followed it down, firing relentlessly until it broke apart in the air.

The RAF’s AVRO Lincoln, a bomber developed at the end of WWII, which flew after the war in operational service.

Although the plane was attacked about 20 miles (32 km) to the northeast, near Lüneburg, West Germany, the bulk of the debris crashed into a small forest near the town of Bolzenburg, about three miles into East Germany, barely across in the so-called the Russian Zone. Three of the seven RAF flight crew members managed to bail out, but the other four were killed during the attack. One of the three who bailed out died because his parachute failed to open. The other two were killed afterwards when one of the Russian MiG-15s circled back and fired on them as they hung helplessly from their parachutes. Later, Winston Churchill himself would characterize the Russian action as a “wanton attack” and noting less than “murder”.

USAFE and all NATO air forces were issued orders to shoot first in any other engagements that might follow. Diplomatic messages were conveyed to the Russians and Czechoslovakians that the West would engage if further provoked. This did not dissuade the Soviets, however, and two additional incidents followed in short order.

British European Airlines Vickers Viking 1B at Manchester, England, in 1953.

The first incident involved a British European Airways Vickers Viking airliner that was flying on a scheduled flight to Berlin. It was intercepted by a pair of MiG-15s that fired their cannons near the plane. The pilots assumed that this was either to convey a threat or perhaps was done to get them to fly more in the center of the 20 mile wide flight corridor that the nations had agreed on to allow air access to Berlin. Thankfully, the MiG-15s did not return to fire on or near the plane a second time.

The second incident was a full-on attack aimed at an American B-50 that was flying a weather reconnaissance mission. The B-50 was armed, however, and the crew fired back with their defensive guns. Although they were heavily outclassed, their fire somehow drove off the attacking MiG-15s. Thankfully, in the wake of these events, the situation stabilized after a few more weeks and both sides backed down from what was evolving quickly into an undeclared war.

The Cold War had gone back cold.

]]>http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/02/encounter-over-the-iron-curtain/feed/1http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/02/encounter-over-the-iron-curtain/Fritz Beckhardt’s Final Flighthttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/historicwings/~3/F8J8ZH1RrPE/
http://fly.historicwings.com/2017/01/fritz-beckhardts-final-flight/#commentsFri, 27 Jan 2017 08:00:53 +0000HWhttp://fly.historicwings.com/?p=9167On November 13, 1918, the pilots of the German fighter group, Kampfeinsitzerstaffel 5 (Kest 5), flew their final mission of the Great War. Two days earlier, at the 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the 11th Month of 1918, the Armistice had been signed. The war was over and many Germans were dismayed at their country’s loss.

The Kest 5 pilots were ordered to pull back from the front lines to avoid any unintended contact with Allied forces. Their planes were then to be turned over to the French as war prizes. Upset with the terms of the surrender, they flew instead to Switzerland. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but nothing went quite as planned.

The Intended Order

The pilots were ordered to fly from their front line base at Lahr-Dinglingen Airfield in western Baden-Württemberg, to Friedrichshafen, located adjacent to Lake Constance. This was 75 miles to the southeast. Once at Friedrichshafen, they were to park their planes. Most likely, their planes, new model Siemens-Schuckert D. IIIs, among others, would be destroyed or perhaps paraded around by the French in victory celebrations.

Many German pilots, including the German ace, Vizefeldwebel Fritz Beckhardt, were angry at the order. Rather than complying, Beckhardt and some of the other pilots of Kest 5 chose to fly instead to neutral Switzerland. They hoped for a positive welcome and the chance to turn over their planes to the Swiss, who they imagined would be grateful.

Fritz Beckhardt’s personal plane was a Siemens-Schuckert D. III. The type was one of Germany’s best fighter aircraft. The other leading pilots from Kest 5 intending to fly to Switzerland were Feldwebel Hans Weisbach, who, along with Vizefeldwebel Ernst Brantin, would fly together in a D.F.W.L. two-seater; Leutnant Gustav Michels, who would fly across in an Albatros A.W.S. D.5a; and both Oberleutnant Heinrich Dembowsky (the commander of Kest 5) and Offiziersaspirant Arnold Eger, who would each fly across the border in their personal Siemens-Schuckert fighter plane.

What the pilots of Kest 5 didn’t know was that the Swiss would answer their arrival with gunfire.

The plane flown by Oberleutnant Heinrich Dembowsky, commander of Kest 5, which ended up in a crash landing after taking ground fire in Switzerland.

The Final Mission

When dawn broke on November 13, the five planes of Kest 5 were fueled and readied for departure. The pilots strapped themselves into their machines and in a cloud of blue-grey oil smoke, the engines came to life. Beckhardt allowed his machine time to warm up before he advanced his throttle to take off. His plane accelerated quickly across the low cut grass of the airfield and then he was climbing upward into the morning sunlight. He made a final turn around the airfield before heading southeast in the general direction of Friedrichshafen.

We cannot know with certainty Beckhardt’s exact course that day. It appears he flew until he first saw the shore of Lake Constance in the distance. Then he veered south to trace a course toward Lake Zurich in Switzerland. His plan apparently was to find a suitable landing field somewhere along the Swiss lake’s edge. Flying separately, Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger took a direct route. They flew toward the closest border with Switzerland. Two other pilots flew the same route as Beckhardt. One flew on his wing. It took less than an hour before all of the planes were across the border and into Switzerland.

The first aerial photograph of Rapperswil, taken by Walter Mittelholzer in 1919, just six to eight months after the aircraft of Kest 5 arrived.

Who was Fritz Beckhardt?

At the end of the war, Vizefeldwebel Fritz Beckhardt was one of Germany’s leading aces. He had 17 confirmed kills to his credit, though his personal count of kills was more than 20 shot down. Beckhardt was also a Jewish-German pilot. Although many in Germany had questioned whether Jews had the courage to fight, Beckhardt had proved them wrong. Proud of his heritage, he was a member in the League of Jewish Soldiers at the Front.

Twice he had met and received personal congratulations from the German Emperor, Wilhelm II, for his victories. Among his many citations, he wore the Iron Cross Second Class. He was also one of only eighteen men in the entire German military to have been decorated with the House Order of Hohenzollern. A friend and fellow German-Jewish pilot, Edmund Nathanael, had received that high citation as well.

Fritz Beckhardt had come from humble beginnings. Before the war, he had been simply a grocer in the family store. When the war began, like many others, he had answered the call to arms and joined the German army. At the front, he demonstrated extraordinary bravery first in infantry combat, earning him Iron Cross Second Class. In 1917, perhaps tired of combat in the mud, he requested the opportunity to train as a pilot. This was approved and he quickly earned his wings. He was subsequently assigned to fly reconnaissance aircraft. Displeased with the idea of not being able to fight, it wasn’t long before he requested to fly fighters. Once again, he was approved for advanced fighter training.

He joined a combat fighter unit in February 1918. Just nine months remained before the war ended, however, and the so-called “glory days” of Germany’s dominance in the skies had ended. Nonetheless, he made short work of the enemy and shot down 17 aircraft in the ensuing months. During that time, he flew with many of Germany’s other great aces, including Hermann Göring.

Fritz Beckhardt, ID photo from March 1920 — one and a half years after the end of the war.

A Jewish Pilot with a Swastika

In the air, Beckhardt’s personal symbol was the swastika, which was painted on both sides and on the top of his fighter plane’s all-black fuselage. That a Jewish pilot would adopt the swastika as a symbol was not out of place at the time. During World War I, the swastika was just another well-recognized good luck symbol that pilots on both sides used. It was only after the end of World War I that a number of nationalist parties in Germany, chiefly the Nazis, adopted the swastika and perverted its meaning into a symbol of racial purity.

Beckhardt’s swastika was backwards from the later Nazi version, with the crossbars pointed counter-clockwise. His bold swastika was large and clearly visible on the plane’s fuselage. He hoped that the symbol was recognized and would instill fear in the French pilots as his reputation grew and they would recognize his markings. They would know that an ace was among them in the skies, hunting for yet another kill.

The damage remains of Oberleutant Heinrich Dembrowski’s plane in Swiss hands; the planes was later used for parts to keep the other planes airworthy.

Arrival in Switzerland

On that morning of November 13, however, Beckhardt’s least concern was combat with the French. With the war over, he could fly calmly without scanning the skies for enemy planes. He was at ease with himself and his decision to take his plane to Switzerland. After Beckhardt crossed in Swiss territory, he flew directly south toward Lake Zurich. There, he hoped to find an excellent landing spot along water’s edge. He did not expect to find any airfields because the Swiss did not have an active air force and most Swiss pilots trained in France. As it was, he and the other plane that was flying on his wing — the two-seater with Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger on board — found the town of Rapperswil on the shores of Lake Zurich.

The two descended and made a wide turn over the town, flying past the church spire and castle that stood next to the lake. Many Swiss residents ran outside upon hearing the sound of the aircraft engines — so rare was a plane in the skies over Switzerland that any flight always aroused great excitement. That day in Rapperswil, people were shouting, “En Flüger, en Flüger…” as the planes flew overhead. Expecting to see the Swiss national insignia on the wings, instead the people were stunned to recognize German crosses. Almost immediately, a Swiss army unit that was billeted next to Rapperswil opened fire. The sound of gunfire echoed through the town.

In the air, Feldwebel Weisbach and Vizefeldwebel Brantin in their two-seater turned away as the bullets whizzed past. They flew to the east and then dove toward the lake’s edge. Once beyond the town and out of the line of fire, they spotted a monastery. This was Wurmsbach, located just outside of Rapperswil. They put their plane down in the fields alongside, shut down the engine, and climbed out. They were pleased to have gotten down in one piece after all of the gunfire they had encountered over the town.

Fritz Beckhardt, however seemed completely unperturbed by the gunfire. Perhaps he recognized that the Swiss weren’t properly leading their fire or shooting accurately. Perhaps he had seen worse in the skies over France. As it happened, he flew directly over the armory where the Swiss forces were located. Rather than turn away to the east as Dembowsky had done, Beckhardt simply flew on. He dipped the nose of his Siemens-Schuckert toward the city hall, cut the engine, and landed not far from Gemüsebrücke in the damp grass of a meadow. Three stunned lads looked on, each with a wagon in tow. They were rooted in place at the sight of the plane.

After Beckhardt landed, he waved frantically to the three boys to come over. They were less than 100 yards away, still standing stock still. After some discussion between them, the three abandoned their wagons and jogged over. Beckhardt climbed out of the cockpit and breathed in the clear air. In the wing, he spotted a fist-sized hole — the results of the ground fire. Had it been a few feet over, the bullets might have hit his engine or even him. One of the boys would later recall how the flyer wore his leather flying helmet and how its ear flaps dangled down. The boy also remember that Beckhardt had sported a high-necked leather jacket with fur lining. His collar turned up in a style reminiscent of Manfred von Richthofen.

To nobody in particular, Beckhardt simply said, “Griis Gott”. Then he lit a cigarette, probably to calm his nerves. It had been an unexpectedly risky day. Shortly thereafter, the Swiss army arrived and took him into custody.

Oskar Bider, the famous Swiss pilot who came to meet with the German pilots soon after their landing; shown here in the cockpit of one of the Nieuports acquired a couple of years later by the Swiss Air Force.

Aftermath and the Fate of the Others

Leutnant Michels, flying his Albatros A.W.S. D.5a, also came down at Rapperswil safely. As for Oberleutnant Dembowsky and Offiziersaspirant Eger, their plan to fly just inside the Swiss border and land proved troublesome. As it happened, closer to the German border, the Swiss gunners were better shots. One of the planes was damaged and overturned when it crash landed, shattering its propeller as it flipped. It came to rest with the tail high up in the air. The pilot was uninjured. The other one landed safely.

The German pilots of Kest 5 who arrived on November 13, with Swiss police (at left) and Oskar Bider, the famous Swiss pilot, at the center (tallest). Photo Credit: Provided by the Descendants of Fritz Beckhardt.

After capture, the pilots were gathered together at Rapperswil. In the days that followed, the famous Swiss aviator Oskar Bider, then a Oberleutnant with the new Swiss Air Force, came down to meet with them. The newspapers carried articles talking about the German pilots and their planes. Less than a week later, following the news of the safe arrival (albeit with gunfire) of those first planes, another 12 pilots made their way to Switzerland. They arrived on November 17 and 18.

One of the German planes after its landing in Switzerland, often attributed as carying the markings of Leutnant Helmut Lange, but more likely the plane of Offizieraspirant Arnold Eger who flew to Switzerland that day.

The question of what to do with the German planes was solved quickly. The Swiss simply pressed the new German machines into their new air force, over-painting the tail marking and fuselage insignia with Swiss crosses. The damaged aircraft were kept too and later cannibalized for parts to keep the others flying. Two years later, the remaining planes were sent back to Germany for modification and rebuilding, and when this was completed they were returned to service in Switzerland. By then, Switzerland had also acquired many newer French types, such as the Nieuport 21. Over the weeks following their arrival, the German pilots were repatriated to Germany.

The plane of either the German pilot Leutnant Helmut Lange or Offizieraspirant Arnold Eger. Both arrived after Switzerland shortly after the end of the war. Note that the tail of the plane is already painted to display the Swiss markings.

With the arrival of the pilots from Kest 5, the Swiss Air Force made a huge step forward. Though it had been founded four years earlier in 1914, by the end of World War I, Switzerland had just nine pilots and a handful of outdated airplanes. With the new Siemens-Schuckert D. IIIs and the Albatros A.W.S. D.5a, they were able to modernize their air force.

Today, the Swiss present a modern, powerful air force that is well able to patrol and defend the country’s airspace. From their small start in 1914 and with the huge advance that they took at the end of 1918, they have come a long way.

Ultimately, Beckhardt’s plane was cannibalized as well — here the fuselage can be seen to still carry his personal swastika markings.

As for Fritz Beckhardt, with the rise of the Nazis in Germany, he worked to help Jews escape Germany. He was discovered and imprisoned but later pardoned by another former WWI fighter pilot — Göring himself. Knowing that they would only be free for a short while if they remained, Fritz Beckhardt and his wife left Germany and drove in their Adler (the family car) to Lisbon, Portugal. Then, after months of waiting and petitioning, in May 1941, the RAF picked up the two and flew them to Bristol, England. They were interned for a short while but then released. Thereafter, they lived in London, England, having escaped death at the hands of the Nazis.

One More Bit of Aviation Trivia

That the Jewish ace, Fritz Beckhardt, had the swastika painted on the sides and top of his fuselage is viewed as an historical anomaly, but is not to be unexpected given that at the time, the swastika was simply a good luck symbol. Interestingly, there was little confusion as to the meaning of a Star of David, which was seen universally as a symbol of Judaism. While none of the Jewish flyers had Stars of David on their aircraft, one German pilot, Ltn.d.R. Adolf Auer, of Jasta 40, had exactly that — and he wasn’t even Jewish!

Post Note: There is some possibility that the story of Fritz Beckhardt and Leutnant Michels are reversed, though a reasoned assessment of the stories and records points to the above being the likely most accurate representation of what happened that day.

Exactly 75 years ago today, on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, catching America by surprise. From the first minutes of the attack, the Japanese took out most of the fighter aircraft at the island’s airfields, leaving their dive bombers and torpedo planes free to execute their attacks without fear of fighter interception. As a result, what was likely the first American plane to take off that day wasn’t a fighter plane, but rather an unarmed, twin-engine scout seaplane, a Sikorsky JRS-1 flying boat. The Navy seaplane was piloted by Ensign Wesley H. Ruth of US Navy Utility Squadron One (VJ-1) on a mission to search for and find the attacking Japanese fleet.

By chance, their assigned course took them directly to the Japanese fleet — and but for two degrees of heading, history of the war quite nearly changed that day.

Contemporary illustration of a Sikorsky JRS-1 in pre-war scheme for easy identification.

An Unlikely First Plane to Fly into Danger — the Sikorsky JRS-1

In the three years leading up to Pearl Harbor, the US Navy had procured 17 of Sikorsky JRS-1 flying boats for scouting and aerial photography. Ten of those were assigned to a single unit, Utility Squadron One (VJ-1) and were based on Ford Island, right at the epicenter of the Japanese attack. Ensign Wes Ruth’s seaplane, the 13th built in the series, was delivered in 1938.

Ensign Ruth’s squadron was primarily tasked with duties as a photographic unit for the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet. The squadron’s flight crews were trained additionally in fleet reconnaissance and antisubmarine patrol. However, the Sikorsky JRS-1 was an unlikely combat plane. It was slow, with a maximum airspeed of just 105 kts. It boasted just 875 hp of power. It was unarmored and unarmed, without defensive machine guns.

In fact, the US Navy’s Sikorsky JRS-1 was little more than a stripped down, militarized version of the proven civilian airliner, the Sikorsky S-43. In turn, that plane a smaller version of the more famous and larger Sikorsky S-42 “Clipper”. The S-43 was known as the “Baby Clipper”. In civilian service, the “Baby Clippers” flew with Pan Am, among other airlines, plying the skies with short passenger flights. A common route was to carry passengers from Miami to Havana, Cuba, as but one example. In its military configuration, the JRS-1 had a maximum range of just a bit more than 500 nm plus a bit more for fuel reserve. It’s only weapons were that it could carry a few small depth charges to use in the event of having to hunt submarines.

Setting the Scene

On the morning of December 7, 1941, Utility Squadron One’s JRS-1 seaplanes were lined up beside the runway. They were easily identifiable, painted brightly in a color scheme that was entirely ill-suited for the war that had so unexpectedly begun. The fuselage was bare metal silver and the wings and tail were painted in bright orange and yellow to ensure that the seaplanes could be easily spotted from afar while flying their photo missions. Thus, Ensign Ruth took off that morning knowing full well that if spotted, he was a sitting duck. He flew anyway, hoping beyond hope to find the Japanese fleet and report its position back, so that the US Navy’s fighters and bombers could get a chance to fight back.

USS West Virginia in the aftermath of the attack, as survivors struggle on the deck of the ship.

Ensign Ruth’s Mission

When the first Japanese bombs began to fall, Ensign Ruth was eating breakfast in the mess hall at the Ford Island base’s BOQ — the Bachelor Officers Quarters. He watched calmly as the first wave of Japanese planes descended toward the fleet anchored around Ford Island, thinking it was a mock attack by the US Marine Corps flyers, as had happened many times before. He realized quickly that it was an attack when the first planes began dropping bombs on the nearby Navy PBY base.

Grabbing his cap and coat, he abandoned his breakfast and ran through the lobby of the BOQ. He stopped briefly to help several some civilian families who had run inside seeking shelter and then realized that he should get to the flight line. He jumped into his personal car, a convertible, and drove with the top down as fast as he could to the airfield. As he drove, he thought that he was on a “one-way trip” that would end in his death. He scanned the skies as he drove. Japanese planes crisscrossed the skies, making repeated attacks against the Navy’s many ships anchored around the base.

He felt exposed and at risk of getting strafed. However, the Japanese planes were more focused on the great battleships in the harbor. They either didn’t notice or didn’t bother to go after his single car as it raced along one of the island’s few roads toward the base. Just as he arrived at the north end of the airfield’s single north-south runway, about a quarter mile from the battleship USS Arizona, the ship took a direct hit by a Japanese bomb.

The forward magazine on the Arizona exploded in a great flash and the ship’s entire front section blew up, sending a massive cloud of black smoke in the sky. The battleship’s powder pellets — each one “about the size of my middle finger,” he later said — rained down around and into his car as he entered the base, as he put it, “like snow” falling. Pulling up at one of the squadron’s hangars, he parked and made his way to the squadron’s ready room. Along the way, he passed a line of dead bodies that were lined up by the hangars.

A Japanese bomber of the type used at Pearl Harbor.

A rushed pre-flight briefing followed. As quickly as Ensign Ruth could get a crew together, he raced out to one of the awaiting JRS-1 seaplanes. His hastily assembled flight crew included a total of six men — himself, a copilot, a radioman, and three sailors who were to perform as spotters searching for the enemy fleet. All but Ensign Ruth were enlisted men, even including the copilot. These men had been drawn from those who had made their way to the airfield. Other flight crews were steadily coming to Ford Island on board the many small boats that braved the journey even as the Japanese planes were in the midst of their aerial attack. Within hours, all ten of the JRS-1 flying boats were airborne performing search missions all around the ocean surrounding Hawaii, manned by these crews who risked it all to get to their battle stations.

As Ensign Wes Ruth was preparing to take off, unexpectedly the commanding officer of the sister squadron, VJ-2, ran out to his seaplane. The officer handed each the three sailors on the seaplane a WWI vintage M1903A3 Springfield bolt-action rifle as well as a little ammunition.. With those rifles on board, they were no longer “unarmed”, though it is questionable that single-shot rifles were much of a match against any of the Japanese fighter planes, which carried multiple machine guns and wing-mounted cannons each. As it was, since the Sikorsky JRS-1 didn’t have gun positions or even an open cockpit or shooting position in the back. The only way to fire out of the seaplane would have been to first shoot out the windows in the back. None of the flight crew held any illusions about their chances of success.

An M1903A3 Springfield Rifle, the type that was handed to Ens. Ruth’s flight crew that day. Source: Wikipedia

An Incredibly Fortuitous Course

Ensign Ruth’s orders were to fly a search mission heading due north first for 250 miles, then turning to fly due east for 10 miles before turning back south for a return flight to Oahu. Though nobody realized it, at that moment the Japanese fleet was located directly north of Oahu, almost exactly 220 miles away, right on his course line and near the turn point at the end of his assigned line.

Amidst the chaos of the aftermath of the Japanese attack, Ensign Ruth took off and headed north. As the seaplane banked around to the north, the Japanese fleet was still heading south, intent on reducing the distance its returning planes would have to fly to get back on board. As the JRS-1 trundled along, however, the returning attack planes were already ahead and nearing the Japanese fleet. As they came in, the Japanese fleet altered course to 315 degrees, turning into the wind to facilitate recovering their planes.

Meanwhile, lacking any hope of defending himself against any fighter cover, Ensign Ruth’s only hope was to avoid detection by flying just beneath a broken layer of clouds at 1,000 feet of altitude. He skimmed along just below as all eyes searched the water for any sign of the enemy fleet, planning to duck into the clouds to avoid detection if any enemy planes or ships were spotted, and then make his escape as they radioed in a report. The sailors in the back of his Sikorsky, however, were at the windows, scanning both the skies and waters while holding their Springfield rifles, ready to shoot at whatever they spotted.

Photo taken from a Japanese plane during the first attacks on Pearl Harbor.

For slightly more than two and a half hours, he flew north at the JRS-1′s normal cruising speed of 95 knots. Finally reaching a point 250 miles north of Oahu, Ensign Ruth turned to the east and flew his assigned ten miles. Then he turned back south. What he didn’t know was that the Japanese fleet was perhaps only 30 miles to directly west of his search track, directly parallel to the point where he had made his turn eastward. Had he been assigned to turn westward instead, he would have likely flown into the midst of the entire Japanese fleet as it was recovering the planes from the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Neither the enemy or Ensign Ruth’s crew spotted each other. Instead, the JRS-1 finished its eastward leg and Ensign Ruth turned south to fly another two and a half hours back to Ford Island. On the way, the crew excitedly reported another airplane that following behind and below. As they neared Kaneohe Bay, across the island from Pearl Harbor, Ensign Ruth quickly descended to get below the unidentified aircraft. Cautiously, they watched as it flew onward into the distance, apparently not noticing them. If they had been engaged by the aircraft, which they assumed to be enemy, by flying low he hoped that the sailors in back could have shot back with their rifles out of the seaplane’s side windows in the rear fuselage. Weeks later, he discovered that the other aircraft had been just a civilian plane that was out dropping parachutists that day.

The burning scene after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. USS Oklahoma (BB-37) can be seen capsized in the foreground, while behind is USS Maryland (BB-46) and USS West Virginia (BB-48), which is burning to the right side. Photo Source: National Archives Identifier 295984

The flight across the island to Ford Island passed uneventfully. However, when the seaplane arrived back at Pearl Harbor, the anchorage was a fiery scene of destruction. Sunk and damaged battleships, cruisers, and support vessels littered the harbor. A panorama of chaos was on display in front of his seaplane, with fires burning at the surrounding airfields as smoke blotted the horizon.

He turned the JRS-1 toward the single north-south runway on Ford Island and set up for a landing. As he came in, he was shocked to find trigger happy antiaircraft gun crews shooting at his airplane. The gunners were blazing away at anything that was flying, thinking the air was still full of Japanese planes, despite that the attack had ended hours earlier. In the confusing period after the attack, several other US Navy and Army Air Corps planes were shot down by friendly fire. Others were badly damaged while attempting to land, including many of the US Army Air Corps’ new B-17 Flying Fortress bombers that were coincidentally scheduled to arrive that morning after a long over water flight from California.

Despite the friendly fire, Ensign Ruth was able to land safely. He shut down and reported back to the ready room for debriefing. While inside, his plane was loaded with depth charges (the only armament the “Baby Clipper” could actually carry). He was soon sent back out to hunt for enemy submarines — none were found.

Despite every effort, the Japanese fleet had slipped away undetected. The disaster that was Pearl Harbor had ended.

Rare color image of capsized wreck of one of the US Navy ships at Pearl Harbor immediately after the attack.

Aftermath and Conclusion

In weeks after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor, Utility Squadron One flew many missions, including numerous aerial photography sorties to document the damage to the Navy’s fleet and facilities at Pearl Harbor from the air. Today, except for the few photos that were taken from Japanese planes, the squadron took almost all of the photos at Pearl Harbor, including those taken during the attacks of ships exploding and sinking, of men fighting the fires. The photographers assigned to Utility Squadron One had all run out of their photo lab with their cameras. Exposed and in the open, they started taking pictures, despite the extraordinary risks involved — they survived and provided the best record of the attacks that day.

Regarding his mission, in retrospect, had Ensign Ruth’s Sikorsky found the Japanese fleet, an immediate counterattack would have been almost certainly ordered. There were several hundred American fighters and bombers on the US Navy’s aircraft carriers available for that, though more than 350 Army planes had been destroyed. All of the US Navy’s aircraft carriers were untouched, having been at sea when the Japanese attacked the anchorage.

The actual airplane, by serial number, that Ens. Ruth flew that day, now located in the Smithsonian and undergoing restoration. Credit: FlugKerl2 under license.

While the counterattack might have dealt some damage to the Japanese fleet, in hindsight, it seems more likely that they would have fared badly against any defensive air patrols mounted by Japanese fighters. The under-appreciated Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero would later teach many hard lessons when the US Navy first tangled with the Japanese. Their pilots were experts, they had superior equipment, and they flew with brilliant tactics and skill.

It is hard to say what might have happened — but in the months afterward, the stage was set to settle the score with the Japanese on much better terms at the Battle of Midway, where, aided by the decoded signals of the Japanese fleet, the Americans capitalized on Japan’s vulnerabilities and sank much of its fleet. Had Ensign Ruth spotted the Japanese ships that day, the resulting engagement would have not only changed history but might well have spelled defeat for the US aircraft carriers. Had that happened, it would have left the US Navy without the aircraft carriers it needed later to turn the tide of the Pacific War.

Ultimately, the bravery of Ensign Ruth’s flight crew was recognized fully by the US Navy. For his initial mission that day — flying first, alone, quite nearly unarmed, and against all odds — he and the other five men on his crew were awarded the Navy Cross. It would only be much later that analysts would realize just how close his flight had actually come to finding the Japanese fleet.

Ensign Wes Ruth survived the war and lived to 101 years old. He passed away on May 23, 2015. The Sikorsky JRS-1 that he flew that day, as unlikely as it sounds, is still with us today. You can visit it at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy site at Washington-Dulles International Airport where it is undergoing restoration to the paint scheme it bore that day at Pearl Harbor.

The challenges of aerial photo interpretation are extraordinary. A dark smudge at the base of a hill may be the concealed entrance of a military cave complex. Forests and orchards may conceal armored vehicles and supply depots. An abandoned barn might house a secret command post. With training and experience, a lot can be seen. Yet even the most skilled photo interpreter sometimes can’t make head or tails of what they’re seeing.

How would you do as a photo interpreter? The following photos are from 1943 and 1944, during the height of World War II in Europe. Can you guess what each shows? Is it military or civilian?

Click on each image to expand it in size for closer analysis.

Photo 1 — Odd shapes in a previously empty field by Amsterdam

Photo 2: Small white circles along a dirt track at Innsbruck, Germany

Photo 3: Strange buildings near Leipzig, Germany

Photo 4: Strange objects on the surface of the water.

Photo 5: Network of white lines on the island of Borkum, near the German-Dutch border

Photo 6: Coastal defenses or something else on the Dutch coast

Photo 7: A German secret weapon in a strange pattern on the sea off Norway’s coast?

Photo 8: What kind of facility is this in Nazi-occupied Norway?

Photo 9: Weird lines in the water along the coast at St. Brieue, France

Photo 10: Luminous dots in patterned rows in the late Autumn sunlight

Photo 11: A test track on the surface of a frozen lake in Norway?

Photo 12: Lines in the plowed field showing something underneath near Rheims, France

The Mysteries are Solved

So how did you do? Here are the correct answers, from April 1944:

Photo 1: This turned out to be a direction finding station for use by Luftwaffe night fighter aircraft, located near Amsterdam.

Photo 2: These strange dots arranged along a dirt track were uncovered to be German Army tents at an encampment at Innsbruck.

Photo 3: These three-sided buildings at Leipzig were civilian, designed to maximize sunlight exposure into each of the apartments.

Photo 4: Sunlight highlights the shapes of sails of a civilian fishing fleet that was moving together toward a nearby port.

Photo 5: These lines on the island of Borkum in the Frisians near the German-Dutch border were simply field drainage ditches.

Photo 6: The strange pattern on the beach was revealed as esparto grass planted to arrest sand dune erosion on the Dutch coast.

Photo 7: This turned out not to be a German super weapon, but rather a naturally occurring whirlpool at Tingvold Fjord, Norway.

Photo 8: This bizarre farm turned out to be full of fox pens with separate enclosures, a small Norwegian civilian fur business.

Photo 9: These small squares in the water by Toulon, France, were entirely civilian — an effort farming shellfish in the sea.

Photo 10: The pattern of luminous white dots on the fields in the Autumn were treetops, wet with dew and reflecting the sunlight.

Photo 11: The circular track on the ice in Norway turned out to be civilian in nature, simply snow cleared for ice skating practice.

Photo 12: Under these farm fields near Rheims are the outlines of World War I trenches, silent witness to a past conflict.

Photo Credits: All aerial photographs in this feature were drawn from the April 1944 issue of the USAAF publication “Impact” and were originally classified as CONFIDENTIAL. They have since been declassified for publication.

]]>http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/11/puzzle-pictures/feed/0http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/11/puzzle-pictures/Royal Flushhttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/historicwings/~3/VSvj7xQTg9w/
http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/11/royal-flush/#commentsSat, 05 Nov 2016 06:00:41 +0000HWhttp://fly.historicwings.com/?p=9379On Sunday, October 10, 1943 — 73 years ago in aviation history — the 8th Air Force flew a bombing raid against the city of Münster in Nazi Germany. At the time, the 8th Air Force was still fairly inexperienced, having only begun extensive bombing raids against Germany six months before. The mission to Münster, despite extensive planning, became one of the worst disasters in 8th Air Force history. Among the groups that flew that day, the 100th Bomb Group (Heavy) suffered the worst — only one bomber returned. After Münster, the 100th Bomb Group’s nickname would be forever fixed in memory as “The Bloody Hundredth”.

This is the story of the crew of that lone survivor, a B-17 Flying Fortress nicknamed, “Royal Flush” (B-17F-45-VE 42-6087 — LD-Z), flown by pilots Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal and Winifred T. “Pappy” Lewis, both of the 418th Bomb Squadron.

Close up of the nose art of the B-17F “Royal Flush”.

The Mission Plan

At the 100th Bomb Group’s base at Station 139, Thorpe Abbotts, the early morning of October 10, 1943, began with a mission briefing. In front of the assembled officers of the flight crews who were scheduled for the mission, the group’s senior officers and intelligence officers stood together. The crews sat in chairs, already dressed in their flight gear to help keep warm against the bitterly cold morning air of England that late Autumn.

At the front of the briefing room there was a map with pins and lines marked on it. These were the routes to be flown. With long pointers, the intelligence officers highlighted the target and reviewed mission ahead. Check points were placed along the route and the headings to and from the target were marked along with the times they were expected to at each. The weather was written out on a blackboard beside the map. The bombers were to fly directly toward the target, then veer slightly to the south, before turning northeast, and passing the “Initial Point” (IP) on a run in to Münster.

Another B-17F “Alice from Dallas” (42-5867) of the 100th Bomb Group, this one with the 350th Bomb Squadron, climbing out after take off heading to bomb Warnemunde in July 1943.

The brief included reconnaissance photos of the target, as well as information on the other aircraft flying that day in support of the raid. This included escorting fighters that, it was hoped, would fight off attacks by the Luftwaffe. In 1943, Germany’s air defenses were at the height of their capabilities and every mission was met by 50 to 100 fighters, sometimes even more.

The briefing officer from G2 (intelligence) gave his intelligence estimate of the expected opposition. Approximately 245 single-engine and 290 twin-engine fighter planes were expected to be defending the target. These would be a combination of single engine fighters, such as Messerschmitt Me 109s and Focke-Wulf Fw 190s, with twin-engine planes that would likely carry rockets, such as Messerschmitt Me 110s, Me 410s, and Junkers Ju-88s.

Actual briefing map with the “Initial Point” circled on the run in to the city, shown at center right. Source: “Flak”, a USAAF training film from 1944

As well, a diversionary raid of B-24 Liberators was scheduled to hit another target. G2 assured the crews that this would draw off up to half of the enemy fighters. To escort the bombers, the 8th Air Force’s P-47 and P-51 groups had been tasked to trade off in relays both to and from the target. Despite all of this, “There would be losses.”

Münster was no “Milk Run”

The briefing made no effort to paint the mission as a “milk run”. Indeed, the 100th Bomb Group’s experience over the past few days had been challenging enough already. The Luftwaffe was in fine form and highly expert. Flak was expected to be intense and accurate. The flight crews listened with concern as the attack on Münster was described.

The control tower and flight line at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield in 1945. Photo Credit: USAAF

A detailed description of the target followed including the aiming point for the bombardiers. Over the previous two days, the targets had been military in nature. The mission against Münster was different — this was the first time the 8th Air Force would bomb an entirely civilian target. Ominously, the aiming point was Münster Cathedral, located in the very heart of the old city. The cathedral dated from the 14th Century, though that wasn’t told to the flight crews that morning. The crews were told that targeting the civilian population at Münster would deprive Germany of its much needed civilian railway workers that supported the Nazi war effort.

As the tail gunner of the B-17 “Royal Flush”, Sgt. Bill DeBlasio, would later relate, “It seemed reasonable at the time.”

Opposing Sides

The 8th Air Force fielded a strong force of 274 B-17 Flying Fortresses from the 3rd Bomb Division’s 13th Combat Bomb Wing (13th CBW). A total of 216 P-47 Thunderbolts were tasked to fly escort. It seemed promising and indeed, there was even a hope that the fighters would run up a good score against the German Luftwaffe, which was certain to intercept as the 13th CBW made a direct line toward the target.

At any point along the course, just one or two Fighter Groups would escort the bombers. It was hope that the large diversionary raid by the B-24 Liberators would lure away at least some of the enemy. Flak over the center center of Münster was predicted to be heavy and accurate — most losses, the planners intoned, would come there while bombing the target.

The B-17F “Royal Flush” parked in a hardstand at Thorpe Abbotts in England.

The Flight Crew of “Royal Flush”

The flight crew assigned to fly the B-17 “Royal Flush” that day consisted of the following:

The 100th BG’s newest crew was that of pilots, Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal and Winifred T. “Pappy” Lewis. They were still considered inexperienced or “green”, having just come to the 100th Bomb Group as replacements for losses sustained during the group’s earlier mission against Schweinfurt. Their mission against Münster was only their third raid since arriving in England. The other two raids had been accomplished just over the previous two days — on October 8th against Bremen, and then on October 9th to Marienburg. Thus, the morning of October 10th was to be their third consecutive mission day — it was a rough start for what promised to be a dangerous tour.

At the time, informal USAAF estimates were that the average crew was expected to survive between 12 and 15 missions before getting shot down. A full tour was 25 missions — few were expected to complete a tour and return to the USA. In context, the first crew to survive a full tour of 25 mission was from the B-17 “Hell’s Angels” (#41-24577) with the 303rd Bomb Group, having achieved the nearly impossible 25th missions just five months earlier on May 13, 1943. A week later the crew of the “Memphis Belle” managed it too, and were featured in the famous film of that name. Since then, several other crews had survived 25 missions, but that was still rare. Losses were heavy, mission after mission, and the odds of surviving were worsening as the 8th Air Force began to select targets deeper and deeper into Germany.

“Royal Flush” was usually flown by another crew — John Flanigan’s crew — shown here with the plane.

For the crew of Lt. “Rosie” Rosenthal and Lt. “Pappy” Lewis, “Royal Flush” was not their usual plane. Their own B-17, “Rosie’s Riveters”, had sustained damage on their first mission to Bremen on October 8 and was still undergoing repair. The day before, going to Marienburg, they had also flown “Royal Flush” and had returned in good shape.

In the flight plan, “Royal Flush” was positioned farther back in the group’s formation. They had a front row seat to the carnage. Chillingly, the trailing aircraft were often the first to be shot down. As well as the danger from fighter attack, flak was expected to be deadly and accurate.

While the plan hoped that up to half of the Luftwaffe’s fighters would go after the diversionary raid by the B-24s, it didn’t work out that way. Given weather issues and other problems, the diversionary mission was apparently aborted — the records are confusing in this regard. Some records indicated that 39 B-24 may have flown, perhaps against Coesfeld, Germany, though they may have turned back early, as evidenced by the fact that they reportedly took no casualties at all. In any case, the diversion was either not flown or was so small that the Luftwaffe ignored it.

The German radar operators and air defense controllers focused exclusively on the main attack, a single bomber stream tracking directly toward Münster. The order went out to all of the fighter interceptor units to prepare for take off.

The Insignia of the 418th Bomb Squadron, to which Rosenthal’s and Lewis’ crew were assigned. Photo Credit: Imperial War Museum, modified from original for clarity and correct rotation, for non-commercial use only.

Worse yet, developing weather kept much of the scheduled fighter escort on the ground. Despite that, the 13th CBW bombers flying the main mission were not recalled. Unaware that their fighter escort would never show, the bombers flew on into Germany. In retrospect, the disaster to come was all too avoidable. The 100th BG were flying at the back of the larger 13th CBW formation. Without knowledge of the multiple failures already plaguing the mission, the bomber force began the long flight toward the Dutch coast and beyond.

The German Luftwaffe had an easy job of it. The fighter controllers concentrated everything they had on the main bomber stream. At the many interceptor bases that were situated across northwestern Germany, pilots strapped into their planes. Fuel was added to top off the tanks. Rockets were loaded under the wings. Ammunition stores for each gun were double-checked. Soon, dozens of planes were taking off. They climbed up to 20,000+ feet and began forming up for the attack.

The Luftwaffe planes were Fw 190s, Me 110s, Me 109s, Me 210s, Me 410s, and Ju 88s. Many carried the Luftwaffe’s new air-to-air rockets, designed expressly for the purpose of attacking American bomber formations. Many of the single engine fighters were equipped with the new heavy cannon or machinegun pods under the wings, adding to the firepower that they could use in attacking the bombers.

The “combat box” formation explained. Animated GIF by “Anynobody”, made using data from www.398th.org and an image of B-17 contrails from a pdf copy of a 1944 issue of Naval Aviation News. Click for larger view and animation.

Leading the 3rd Bomb Division’s 13th Combat Bomb Wing was John K. Gerhart, commanding officer of the 95th BG. As the bombers headed into Germany, they realized that the promised fighter escort was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, they hoped, the P-47s were just running late and they would catch. Behind Gerhart’s 95th BG was the 390th BG and the 100th BG. The latter was lead by pilots Major Eagan and John Brady in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”. The 13th CBW flew in the newly developed “combat box” formation that had been designed to maximize the defensive effect of the combined firepower of the formation’s many machine guns.

Before flying over the Dutch coast, quite a few of the bombers from the three groups of the 13th CBW aborted with various engine problems and other issues. This was to be expected. This was, after all, the third straight mission day. Those planes and crews that aborted were the lucky ones. In the 100th BG, 21 bombers set out. Of those, seven aborted and turned back. This left 14 B-17s with the group to continue toward Münster. They encountered little resistance as they passed over Holland.

The combined formation of the 3rd Bomb Division on a mission over Germany, probably 1944. Photo Credit: USAAF

First Fighter Attacks

As the formation crossed into Germany, no attacks had yet come. However, as the bombers neared Münster, everything changed. At 14:53, just nine minutes from the scheduled start of the bomb run — about 25 miles from Münster — the Luftwaffe commenced its first attacks. First, a series of Me 109 and Fw 190 fighters slashed through the formation, firing their guns. The extra 20mm cannons mounted under their wins quickly took their toll on the bombers. These cannons were the most deadly types of guns in the air — a 1945 survey revealed that 6% of the bomber crew casualties were caused by 20mm shells, three times more than by enemy machine guns, which accounted for 2% of casualties. Flak was always the biggest killer, however, and the survey showed 64% of the casualties were credited there.

Immediately after the Me 109s and Fw 190s had finished their attack, a combined force of Me 110 and Me 410 Zerstoren came in. These flew toward the formation from the rear and began firing rockets. As the trailing group, the 100th took the brunt of these attacks. Almost immediately, the group’s leader, Eagan in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”, was hit. Despite the damage sustained to the center of the fuselage, Eagan didn’t pull out of the formation. Instead, he slowed his plane and began to descend. The 100th BG followed the lead plane as it began to slow and descend alongside and the formation began to fall apart.

Slowed, the 100th BG fell behind as the 13th CBW’s other two bomb groups steadily pulled ahead toward the target. Seeing one group descend out of the protective envelope of fire from the wider formation, predictably, the Luftwaffe pilots concentrated their attacks on the 13 remaining B-17s of the 100th BG.

One of the bombers that was flying with the 100th BG, piloted by Keith Harris, normally from the 390th BG, recognized the disaster to come even as it was unfolding. Pushing his throttles forward, he climbed out of the formation to join with the 95th BG as it passed overhead. Another of 100th BG’s B-17s, “Pasadena Nina”, followed as well. The remaining eleven bombers of the 100th BG faced the Luftwaffe’s attacks alone.

In the seven minutes that followed, eight of the remaining eleven aircraft of the 100th BG’s formation were lost to fighter attacks. The B-17 “Aw-R-Go” was hit and caught fire. It soldiered on for a short while before exploding in midair. In the chaos of the fighter attack, the B-17 “Sexy Suzy, Mother of Ten” collided with a damaged Me 109. It veered sharply to the side and slammed into an adjacent bomber, the B-17 “Sweater Girl”. Both went down. Moments later, the B-17 nicknamed “Stymie” was hit hard and the crew turned for home. The German fighters pounced but soon let it go as it was badly damaged and descending rapidly. The Luftwaffe kept their focus on the main formation. Flak subsequently downed the plane, though the crew were able to belly land the plane in a field.

The group leader, Eagan in the B-17 “M’lle Zig-Zag”, was finally downed by more fighter attacks. Eagan’s entire crew parachuted to safety and was taken prisoner. Finally, just three B-17s remained and on board “Royal Flush” things were desperate. A rocket from the attacking fighters had put a huge hole in the right wing and taken out two engines.

Luftwaffe ground-crew (“black men”) positioning a Bf 109 G-6 “Kanonenvogel” equipped with the Rüstsatz VI underwing gondola cannon kit. Note the slats on the leading edge of the port wing. JG 2, France, late 1943, around the time of the ill-fated Münster raid.

Bomb Run

Undeterred, the last three bombers of the 100th BG turned northeast at the IP and began their bomb run. The 13th CBW formation had gone on ahead to bomb Münster. To the remaining planes of the 100th BG, these planes were little more than distant specks, racing ahead. As German flak intensified as the three passed the outer limits of Münster. Finally, the Luftwaffe’s fighters ended their air attacks and withdrew. They would orbit and await the surviving bombers after they left the target area.

After passing the IP, the rule was that bombers would have to fly straight and level at exactly 150 mph. This lasted for about two minutes and gave the bombardiers time to aim and drop their bombs. Only then would the pilots take control and turn back toward England. On paper, it meant that the bombers could be more accurate in dropping their bombs — in practice, it meant that the German flak gunners had an easy time aiming their shells.

In this attack, the larger numbers of bombers in the combined 13th CBW had shared the fire from the deadly flak gunners. Together, they dropped their bombs starting at 15:03. The last bombs hit their targets at approximately 15:15. With that, the main force of the 13th CBW turned toward home. Next came the three bombers of the 100th BG. They were heading into the target alone, which gave the German flak gunners the opportunity to concentrate their fire. There were no other targets in the skies over the city.

Flak damaged sustained on the mission to Münster, this on the left wing of a B-17 from the 390th BG(H), which had landed at Thorpe Abbotts after the mission on October 10, 1943, due to weather. Credit: 100th Bomb Group Archives

At once, the sky filled with puffs of black from the explosions of the flak rounds. As usual, they were shooting with extraordinary accuracy. The Luftwaffe boasted well-trained flak crews and sophisticated radar and gun direction systems. As a result, the German flak was right on the correct altitude. The shell bursts were perfectly aimed with the exact lead required to target the three bombers as they passed over the city center. Tiny bits of shrapnel cut through the fuselage and wings of “Royal Flush” from nearby explosions.

With no enemy fighters around, one of the waist gunners on “Royal Flush”, Sgt. Loren Darling, crossed the open bomb bay on the narrow catwalk to look in on the two pilots, “Rosie” Rosenthal and “Pappy” Lewis. He peered up into the cockpit from behind and looked out the windshield. He could see the other two 100th BG B-17s just above and ahead. These were the B-17s “Shackrat” and “Horny”. Suddenly, both bombers took direct hits from flak. Later, he recalled, “Just like that, they were balls of black dust. Bomb bay doors were open, ready to spill out twelve 500-pound high-explosive bombs, then Boom. Gone forever.” Each plane had carried ten men — he didn’t believe that there were any survivors from either.

B-17s flying through the black bursts of German flak, as seen from gun camera footage taken from an attacking German plane.

All but one of the 100th BG’s B-17s had been hit and destroyed. Alone in the skies over Münster, two engines out and streaming black smoke, at 15:18, “Royal Flush” dropped its bombs and turned toward home. The armada that had once been the 100th BG was no more. The other two planes that had flown ahead from the 100th BG formation had also dropped their bombs on the target — this was Capt. Keith Harris, who was flying with the 100th BG that day in the B-17 “Stork Club” and Lt. John Justice in the B-17 “Pasadena Nina”.

“Pasadena Nina”, however, wouldn’t make it back to England. The bomber was hit by flak over Holland and spun in — two of its crew were killed, seven taken POW, and one, Lt. Justice himself, evaded captured and made it back with the help of the Dutch Resistance. He only returned to Thorpe Abbotts many months later.

Another photograph of the flak damaged suffered by the 390th BG(H) B-17 during the Münster raid. Credit: 100th Bomb Group Archives

As soon as Rosenthal and Lewis left Münster, they searched for other bombers of the 13th CBW, hoping to rejoin the others for mutual protection. By the time they had finished bombing the target, “Royal Flush” had fallen approximately :15 minutes behind the first bombers that had struck Münster. The closest were perhaps just four or five minutes ahead, but at the speeds they were flying, that meant that they were already between 15 and 50 miles away — well out of sight. With two engines out, they had no hope of catching up. In all directions, as Rosenthal and Lewis scanned the skies, they found no other airplanes. It was as if the skies had suddenly cleared.

In any case, rejoining with the 13th CBW would not have offered much protection. The German fighters had resumed their attacks on the formation. There were many casualties. In the 390th BG, eight aircraft were lost — nearly half the entire group as 18 of its B-17s had flown to Münster. The 95th BG had fielded 19 B-17s and, of those, five were lost to enemy fighter attacks. The rest of the 3rd BD lost an additional four planes. Most of the surviving planes suffered heavy damage.

A German Luftwaffe Fw 190A, fitted with additional under wing gun pods for intercepting bombers in 1943 and 1944.

More Fighters!

Rosenthal and Lewis soon found themselves facing dozens of attacking Luftwaffe fighters. They were alone and an “easy target”. The Luftwaffe fighters easily spotted the lone bomber because it was trailing black smoke. Worse yet, “Royal Flush” was slowed and steadily losing altitude.

As the first fighters streaked in to finish off the wounded bomber, Rosenthal and Lewis began to pull the bomber around the sky in defensive maneuvers to throw of the attackers’ aim. Since the control surfaces were directly connected by push wires to the control yokes in the cockpit, it took the combined muscles of both men to maneuver the big B-17. The tactic worked as Germans had not expected the B-17 to suddenly bank steeply and turn away so violently. Then, as they circled around, they watched it reverse and do it again against the next attack.

Luftwaffe pilots using models to demonstrate how to attack a B-17 Flying Fortress. The wires projecting from the B-17 model demonstrate the arcs of fire from the various gun positions.

The maneuvers were so severe that the waist gunners in the back of the bomber could barely hold on. Nonetheless, they tried to fire at the German fighters as they flashed past. Only the tail gunner and ball turret gunner were properly strapped in. The Germans recognized that an attack from the rear would give them the best chance of downing the lone bomber quickly. Their next attacks came in next directly from behind. The tail gunner, Sgt. Bill DeBlasio, began to fire at them with his two .50 caliber machine guns.

In a letter to “Rosie” Rosenthal written years later in 2001, Sgt. DeBlasio recounted the events of that day. He began by mentioning that it had been seven years since he had suffered his last “flashbacks” — in other words, for 49 years, the events of that day over Münster had still haunted him. The letter was the first time he would recount the mission after all those years.

He reported that the German fighter planes were coming in in lines of four abreast and were holding their fire until they were only 800 yards away. The first four to attack flew right into his guns:

“I lined up on the number two man form my left and fired three short bursts. His left wing flew off over his plane and crashed into the plane to the outside. Both went down on fire. I then switched to their inside plane on the right and fired at him. Smoke started coming from the plane and the canopy came off, the plane rolled over ejecting the pilot. I couldn’t follow his plight as I had one more plane to deal with. Just as I brought my sights to bear on him, he peeled off to his left (my right).”

A Luftwaffe fighter making a pass at a B-17 formation — photo taken by USAAF Combat Cameramen during mid-1943 over Germany.

The German fighters pressed in, undeterred by the first losses. After all, “Royal Flush” was a lone bomber with two engines out — a damaged straggler. Further, they could see that the plane had clearly suffered a lot of battle damage already. Finishing the job should have been easy. Their only mission was to ensure that the bomber and crew didn’t make it back to England, as then they would come and bomb again on another day.

The gunners kept up return fire as Rosenthal and Lewis threw the plane from left to right attempting to dodge the attacks. Incredibly, their flying caused much of the attackers to miss, but they were losing altitude fast since the bomber had only two engines running. Both pilots were braced so that they could hold the left rudder pedal pressed to the floor to counteract the torque from the unequal thrust. DeBlasio, however, was proving to be an ace shot — literally.

“There was a period of about 4 or 5 minutes respite then they started again. I believe we may have been about 15 thousand feet as two Ju-88’s joined the fray, with two engines out there was no way we could maintain high altitude. Again there were 4 FW 190’s, only this time they were staggered more or less one behind the other, not in a straight line as were the first bunch. This time however the two Ju-88’s were on each end of the 4 fighters making six aircraft lined up on us. For some unknown reason, I decided to try for the bigger aircraft first. I thought I noticed something hanging from the bottom of their aircraft. About that time, here come the rockets. A total of 8 rockets come at us in about 1 minute of time, all missed. It dawned on me that what I saw beneath the aircraft were their flaps. They needed to lower their flaps to give them a more stable platform for their rockets.

“I started firing at the Ju-88 on the left and soon he was on fire and sliding off on his right wing. The other aircraft had closed too within 600 yds and I just started raking my fire from left to right and back again. During this exchange two of the FW-190’s in the center crashed into each other, as I believe I hit them both at the same time. So we have a total of six planes shot down and we don’t know how many, if any, were damaged.”

Page from a USAAF training manual for B-17 gunners during 1943/1944, showing the tight and cramped positions of the tail gunner and waist gunner on the B-17 Flying Fortress.

Incredibly, Sgt. DeBlasio became an ace that day in a single mission. Sadly, he was one of those bomber gunners whose exploits remain relatively unrecognized. After the war, it was determined that most bomber formations vastly over-claimed the numbers of Luftwaffe aircraft shot down, often double or triple counting kills as different bombers fired on the same attackers or claimed as shot down German planes that were merely damaged and chose to break off the attack and land.

In the case of DeBlasio’s six fighters that he claimed to have shot down, none were officially recognized or verified. No other aircraft witnessed the valiant defense he put up. However, his descriptions leave little doubt as to what happened. In the attack on Münster, the 8th Air Force bomber crews claimed 105 Luftwaffe fighters shot down — German records reflected losses of just 25. Most likely, Sgt. DeBlasio accounted for six of those. In all likelihood, he made the difference and saved “Royal Flush” that day.

Finally, the last of the German planes broke off the attack and headed back to their bases, running low on fuel. Much of the Luftwaffe had concentrated on attacking the other aircraft in the 13th CBW, miles ahead. As they flew over Holland, some of the promised escort of P-47 Thunderbolts finally arrived. A brief dogfight followed against the retiring German fighters, who had hoped to avoid a dogfight with the escorts. Low on ammunition and short on fuel, the German fighters were carrying the extra load of the heavy gun kits strapped under their wings. The P-47s claimed 19 German fighters downed in exchange for perhaps one loss.

The type of escort fighter that was scheduled to cover the mission — in this example, the P-47B Thunderbolt “Soubrette”, assigned to Lt. Robert M Cherry of the 56th Fighter Group’s 62nd Fighter Squadron.

“Royal Flush” saw none of that. Somehow, the B-17 had survived, although the situation was still desperate. The bomber couldn’t hold altitude on the power remaining from the two engines, both on the left wing. Passing over Holland, they watched as light and inaccurate flak was fired at them. That too ended as they crossed the coast and headed toward England and yet, with the steady descent, Rosenthal and Lewis didn’t think they could make it back to base. They might have to ditch in the water. In the chill of October, they might not survive the cold in the water while awaiting rescue — from either side, as the Germans too patrolled the waters off Holland with their boats, hoping to pick up and imprison downed Allied airmen.

Rosenthal ordered the crew to throw out anything they could find. Fire extinguishers, ammunition, extra oxygen bottles, and other gear and machine guns were tossed through the openings at the two waist gunner positions. DeBlasio fired off his remaining ammunition to clear his two guns, knowing that the bullets added a lot of weight too. Then, he unstrapped from the tail gunner position and came forward to assist throwing out more. As much equipment as could be removed was tossed out. Hundreds of pounds lighter, the rate of descent was reduced. With this, they could make to the coast of England after all.

The damage to the plane was remarkable. In one attack, a 20mm shell from one of the attacking Me 109s or Fw 190s had ripped through the fuselage of “Royal Flush”. Both waist gunners were injured badly. The radio man, Sgt. Michael Boccuzzi, administered first aid and morphine. Both survived but had to be sent back to the USA, given the severity of their injuries.

The base hospital at Thorpe Abbotts, where the injured flight crew members were brought after the mission. Source: 100th Bomb Group Foundation

Finally, “Royal Flush” made it back to England. They found the airfields covered in low cloud. After several turns, they located Thorpe Abbotts, which was closer to the coast and therefore less socked in. Firing emergency flares, they made an emergency landing with wheels down. The B-17 rolled to a stop and Rosenthal and Lewis shut down the engines. The crew piled out of the plane onto the mowed grass of the runway. Sgt. DeBlasio later recounted the end of the mission:

“I remember sitting on the grass and vomiting for what seemed like an eternity. I was asked to secure my guns, which I did. I do not recall whether any of us put in claims for downed aircraft, as this was superficial compared to losing the entire Group except one plane. Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good as we all knew any aircraft shot down had to be verified by at least one or two aircraft other than your own. I remember your [written to Rosenthal] going in the ambulance with John Shaffer (waist gunner).”

Sgts. Shaffer and Darling, the two waist gunners were taken to the base hospital. Both were awarded the Silver Star and the Purple Heart.

A satellite image of Thorpe Abbotts airfield today, the bare outlines and overgrown runways of the old base still visible more than 70 years after the end of the war. Credit: Google Earth

Recounting the Losses

Based on Missing Aircrew Reports, the following losses from the 100th BG were recorded with the reasons for each loss cited:

B-17F “Sweater Girl” #42-30047 — 350BS/100BG [LN-Q], Pilot: Rich Atchison — during air attacks hit by the wreckage of a Me 109 and B-17, crashed at Schirl-Beverstrang, 4 miles east of Ostberven, near Münster.

B-17F “Aw-R-Go” #42-30725 — 359BS/100BG [LN-Z], Pilot: Charles Cruikshank — air attacks by fighters set the plane on fire, exploded and came down at Lienen, 15 miles from Münster.

B-17F “Slightly Dangerous” #42-30734 — 351BS/100BG [EP-G], Pilot: Charles Thompson — shot down by an air attack, losing the right wing, aircraft exploded and crashed near Walingen, 6 miles west of Münster.

B-17F “The Gnome” aka “Invadin’ Maiden” #42-30823 — 350BS/100BG [LN-F/Y], Pilot: Charles Walts — shot down by an Fw 190 attack that took out engine #2, catching the wing on fire, and the aircraft exploded and crashed at Hohenhalte, 6 miles west of Münster.

On the ground at Thorpe Abbotts, the 10 man crew of “Royal Flush” was all that remained of the 140 men and 14 airplanes that had flown to Münster from the 100th BG that day. The 100th BG had suffered the ultimate blow. As well, in the previous two days, six other aircraft had also been lost — a total of 60 additional airmen. Some had survived and parachuted out and been taken prisoner.

After debriefing, the crew of “Royal Flush” went for dinner. They sat in a mostly empty dining hall. Those flight crews that had aborted were there, as were several crews from a few of the bombers from the 95th BG that had been forced to land at Thorpe Abbotts due to the bad weather at their own base. That night, the copilot, “Pappy” Lewis, walked over to the Officers Club, peered in, and found it empty. After a drink, he went back to his quarters and turned in. Three days after, the crew got sent for rest and recuperation at an elegant British manor hall, where for a short time they were feted and given the opportunity to wander the grounds and recover before returning to the 100th BG to fly more missions.

When they returned at the beginning of November, the 100th BG was full of fresh new faces. Replacements flight crews were steadily arriving from the USA with new B-17s and many questions. The crew of Rosenthal and Lewis, with its three missions, having been considered green before the Münster raid, were now the “old hands” to the new crews, who hung on their every word.

The crew assignment board at Operations, in early 1945, showing the way crews and airplanes were scheduled for missions, how planes were parked in shared hardstands aside the runway at Thorpe Abbotts.

Postscript

The war would go on for one and a half more years. Against all odds, both pilots, “Rosie” Rosenthal and “Pappy” Lewis, would survive their full tours. All of the men that flew with them that day made it through. Rosenthal, who had been a lawyer before the war, and his trusted copilot, “Pappy” Lewis, served together in the War Crimes Commission that prosecuted Nazi war criminals at Nuremburg after the war. Both sat in on the hearings of Hermann Goering, the once-vaunted former head of the Luftwaffe.

During their service, both earned many medals and awards. For the mission over Münster, Rosenthal was awarded the Silver Star. Both men would return and build lives and families after the war and only rarely talk of their experiences. They considered themselves to be just the lucky ones who survived. Typically of the men of the “Greatest Generation”, they never put much stake in the claims that they were heroes. As much as any other men, those who made up the crew of “Royal Flush” and “Rosie’s Riveters” were the heart and soul of the 100th Bomb Group.

From its first mission on June 25, 1943, to its final mission on April 20, 1945, the 100th BG lost 229 aircraft, in which 768 men perished (KIA and MIA). An additional 939 men bailed out and were made prisoners of war. Thus, of the 1,707 men who were lost or captured throughout the entire war, 130 were lost just from that single mission over Münster — nearly 8%.

The rubble strewn streets of the city of Münster, Germany, as seen in April 1945. The spire of city’s 14th C. cathedral can be seen. Photo Credit: Paulheinz Wantzen, Kriegsende 1945

One Final Word

In all, Münster suffered 102 air raids between 1940 and 1945, mostly night raids by the RAF’s Bomber Command, causing moderate damage, though life went on fairly normally in the city. The first daylight attack on Münster by the American bombers was this one, on October 10, 1943. Approximately 700,000 bombs were dropped on the city in both day and night bombing raids. The death toll topped 1,600, a mercifully low number only possible because the majority of the citizens in the city had been evacuated once the attacks began.

By the end of the war, 60% of all buildings in Münster were destroyed — in the old town at the city center, 90% were destroyed. All utilities were destroyed, leaving the city without water, gas or electricity. When the Allied forces overran the city in April 1945, the damage was so bad that their progress was hindered by the piles of bricks and debris that blocked most of the streets. Only 26,000 people remained.

As for the 14th C. cathedral at Münster that served as the aiming point that day, it survived the war and remains standing today. The rest of the city was reduced to rubble in subsequent bombing raids in 1944. The rebuilding of the city would take years. Today, Münster’s population has reached 300,000.

Bomb Damage Assessment (BDA) photograph from Münster. Source: USAAF

]]>http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/11/royal-flush/feed/0http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/11/royal-flush/The First Air Support for Tankshttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/historicwings/~3/1s59unQq8c8/
http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/10/the-first-air-support-for-tanks/#commentsMon, 03 Oct 2016 07:00:56 +0000HWhttp://fly.historicwings.com/?p=9344Published on October 3, 2016By Thomas Van Hare

Almost exactly one hundred years ago, the world’s first tanks rolled onto the battlefields of the Somme. Amazingly, the first use of airplanes to support tanks while on the attack happened from the very start — on the first day that tanks saw combat at the Battle of Flers-Courcelette. This is their story — and the story of the bravery of those who fought in one of the darkest battles of the Great War in 1916.

A “D” Company Mark I tank near Courcelette, Somme; the photo was taken a year later in September 1917 and was destroyed in the Battle of Fler Courcelette, one of the four that moved on Flers that morning.

On September 15, 1916, Britain’s newest innovation — the tank — deployed onto the battlefields of the Somme. The Germans called these new super weapons, “The Devil’s Chariots”, as they were virtually unstoppable — unless, of course, they broke down, got stuck in a ditch or trench or rolled into a shell hole and couldn’t get out.

Like the early tanks, aerial warfare too was still in its infancy. Military airmen struggled to simply fly, let alone employ their flimsy, fabric and wooden biplanes and early monoplanes to any great effect. Many airman died of crashes, not even from combat with the enemy. Piloting skills were poor. Engines were unreliable. Airplanes were prone to structural failure. By modern standards, flying in World War I, then called the Great War, was a crap shoot. For many airmen, life-expectancy “Over the Front” was measured in days and weeks.

At the start of the Great War, the airplane was used just in reconnaissance missions. Later, it was employed in bombing enemy targets, including in special missions to drop leaflets. The next logical step in air warfare was combat between aircraft. At first, reconnaissance planes took shots at one another with pistols and rifles that they carried on board. Then, by the beginning of 1916, the earliest pursuit planes were in the air. They hunted the reconnaissance planes and bombers, usually alone, but then soon learned to fly in packs, hunting enemy aircraft. As the air forces grew and the numbers of planes multiplied, pursuit planes began hunting one another. What had started as a gentleman’s war between pre-war pilots who often knew one another was quickly overtaken by an industrial-scale battle for control of the air.

A year earlier in 1915, 3 Squadron’s Morane Parasol L and LA planes lined up. It is possible that one of these very airplanes in the photo was the one that flew over Flers that morning. Photo Credit: Australian War Memorial Photo H18969

Ground attack missions soon were tried and a new word was coined — “strafing”, which meant to dive low over the trenches, which were vulnerable from above, and shoot ones machine gun at the enemy soldiers down “in the mud”. The soldiers in the trenches were terrified. Soon, the pilots of both sides took to strafing the trenches regularly. The French innovated a new weapon, called flechettes, which were tiny metal spikes with fins that when dropped from on high, could kill those unlucky enough to be in the open. Indeed, 1916 was a seminal year in the development of combat uses of the airplane.

Airplanes Supporting Tanks

Mr. W. Beach Thomas, a writer with the Daily Mail, was assigned to cover the Royal Flying Corps during the Somme Offensive. On or about September 16th, he wrote regarding his first knowledge of tanks on the battlefield. Rather breathlessly, he related:

“Such a battle has too many parts to suffer description. The battle in the air has perhaps never been equalled. The prisoner, who complained of the ‘Tanks,’ concluded by saying that they were anyway better than the aeroplanes. How many fights there were no one knows. I believe we destroyed more than the 13 enemy planes officially recorded. The enemy kite balloons bob up and down in terror after the havoc in their ranks.

“Village after village just behind the lines was bombed, and to complete the work the airmen came down low enough almost to stroke the back of the ‘Tanks,’ quite low enough to empty their bullet-drams at the enemy’s infantry. The Archies’ fired at them in vain, though, as it seemed to me scores of our craft were perpetually rolling across the sky on ball-bearings of shrapnel cloud. From half an hour before dawn till sunset there was a constant sky patrol enemywards and a continuous chassé over our advancing troops and the enemy’s batteries. Every headquarters that day rang with aircraft messages.”

So it seems that from his view, the tanks too were an extraordinary achievement, and the airmen were flying over them closely on their own missions to support the advance of the ground troops. His reporting dated from the first days when tanks were employed in the Somme Offensive that September 1916. Nonetheless, his article doesn’t quite show a purposeful relationship between tank warfare and air attack — it falls just short, though the two are in the same battle at the same time.

The deadly Halberstadt D.II, introduced in early and mid-1916, was fast becoming a trusted fighter in German air units. The Red Baron even flew the D.II for a time, scoring some of his kills in it.

His declarations of extraordinary success in the air were also perhaps overstated. It was at precisely this time that the German Jastas were arriving with their new Albatros D.I and Halberstadt D.II aircraft, and scoring more and more kills. These were planes that vastly outclassed the B.E. 2Cs that formed the bulk of Britain’s air power. Still, the RFC had massed its aerial forces and was flying thousands of missions over the Somme area. The Germans simply could not match the Allied powers’ aerial intensity during the battle.

The First Air Support of a Tank Advance

It was at the Battle of Flers-Courcellete that the first air support of a tank advance took place, though it was certainly more a case of happenstance than plan. The tanks’ mission was to support the advance of the British 4th Army toward Flers, Belgium. On September 15, the first tanks entered battle. There were just 49 available. Of those, just 32 actually reached the Front to participate in the first attack. In the days after, all were engaged, though many were destroyed, abandoned or stuck in the mud, day by day as the battle progressed.

The British commanding general in charge of the tanks, General Henry Rawlinson, known as 1st Baron Rawlinson, at first erred in his use of his new super weapon. He split the tanks up to fight individually across the entire front, rather than concentrating them together into a powerful “fist” that might have punched through the enemy lines and advanced rapidly. Nonetheless, each tank employed in this fashion was dramatically successful.

The German soldiers had never seen such machines. There seemed little to not defy the armored hulks that bristled with four or more machine guns or cannons. The tanks, despite being spread across the front in small groups, were effective, all the more so as they were supported by following infantry when attacking.

A British Mk 1 Tank at the Battle of the Somme, September 1916.

As a general rule, the Allied advance proceeded steadily, if slowly, against the German defenses. The tanks could, over roads, make a maximum speed of perhaps 4 mph. Over the muddy ground of the battlefield, they were usually advancing at just 1 mph or 1 1/2 mph. It was painfully slow going.

With the tanks, the Allies planned to advance into Flers itself and take the territory to the north and west of the town. The town was a bombed out wasteland of collapsed buildings, rubble, and the ghostly shapes of tree stumps in a wider muddied, shell-pocked landscape. Hopes that the German Army would disintegrate entirely in the face of the new tanks had already proved overly optimistic even if the tanks were powerful assets on the battlefield.

Facing the new tanks, the Germans had little option but to retreat, which they did in reasonably good order. Once back, they regrouped to fight, moving trench line by trench line, as the Allies advanced. As a general rule, the Allied forces progress of the advance was stopped when the tanks got hit by artillery fire, broke down, or got stuck in shell holes, trenches, or ditches. The Germans counter-attacked when the opportunity was right, and this further slowed the advance.

Another writer, this one for the Daily Telegraph and named Philip Gibbs, was assigned to cover the Battle of the Somme. He attended the advance closely and describes the scene in agonizing detail, his prose doing little disguise what must have been a terrible experience for all sides:

“Machine-gun fire rapped out in fierce spasms, and the German ‘Archies’ were throwing up shells which burst all about the planes of our airmen, who came like a flock of birds over the battlefields, flying low above the mists. Long after the sun was at its height there was the white ghost of the moon in the other side of the sky, and it was a strange and beautiful thing to see these aeroplanes of ours shining as though with aluminium wings as they flew through the shellbursts.”

An RFC Morane-Saulnier LA “Parasol”, perhaps one of the ones assigned to 3 Squadron that participated at Flers, Belgium, during the Battle of the Somme.

This style of reporting would be echoed over the decades that followed by the many brave Combat Camera crews who would later serve with the British and American air forces, including in World War II — and even right up to today. However, back then the reporter, Philip Gibbs, was perhaps overly laudatory of the bravery of the pilots. This was probably an accurate account given the terrible circumstances of the battle underway, though by modern standards it borders on propaganda:

“They did wonderful things yesterday, those British air-pilots, risking their lives audaciously in single combats with hostile airmen, in encounters against great odds, in bombing enemy headquarters and railway stations and kite balloons and troops, and registering or observing all day long for our artillery. They were out to destroy the enemy’s last means of observation, and they began the success of the battle by gaining the absolute mastery of the air. Thirteen German aeroplanes (since reported by Sir Douglas Haig to be 15) were brought down, and their flying men dared not come across our lines to risk more losses.”

After the battle, the Daily Mail produced a series of postcards commemorating the events. No. 163 featured the High Street in Flers, Belgium — it was precisely here that the events took place. Photo Credit: Daily Mail

Then Philip Gibbs made note of the first report of an airplane supporting the advance of one of the British Army’s new tanks in the rubble-strewn streets of Flers, Belgium:

“The first news of success came through from an airman’s wireless, which said :—

“A ‘Tank’ is walking up the High Street of Flers with the British Army cheering behind.

“It was an actual fact. One of the motor monsters was there, enjoying itself thoroughly, and keeping down the heads of the enemy. It hung out a big piece of paper, on which were the words :—

“‘GREAT HUN DEFEAT. SPECIAL.’

“The aeroplane flew low over its carcase machine-gunning the scared Germans, who flew before the monstrous apparition. Later in the day it seemed to have been in need of a rest before coming home, and two humans got out of its inside and walked back to our lines.”

One of the tanks involved in the Battle of Flers-Courcelette, a Mark I tank (D 17) surrounded by some of the infantry from 122nd Brigade (41st Division), which it lead into eastern part of Flers on September 15, 1916. This was one of the four tanks used in the battle and among the three that drove along eastern side of the town, flanking the enemy. Photo Credit: The Imperial War Museums, Photograph Q 5578

Analysis and Aftermath

From historic records, we can report what the writers of the day could not — that the attack at Flers was first overflown by the RFC’s 3 Squadron that morning in their Morane-Saulnier Type L and LA high wing monoplanes. These aircraft were also known as “Morane Parasols”, and, in all, 50 had been supplied to the RFC by the French during 1915. The surviving aircraft were still in use in late 1916 when the Somme Offensive began. By that time, they were hopelessly outclassed by the newer German pursuit planes, yet the RFC kept them in action.

The Morane Parasols were primarily for providing reconnaissance support, but were armed with a single forward-firing machine gun. It was this type of airplane that provided the air support to the advance of the Mk 1 tank. The identity of the pilot and which specific plane in 3 Squadron that flew that day to strafe the German soldiers, however, remains a mystery.

On the German side, the soldiers under attack were with the 4th Bavarian and, after a hard morning of fighting, they were ordered in the afternoon to make an orderly retreat to the northeast. They moved quickly and in good order, evacuating Flers, and escaped one mile to the northeast, to the heavily bombed rubble and trenches of the town of Gueudecourt.

Prior to the battle, the church in Flers, at left, and the town hall, at right.

The story from the aspect of the tanks is as interesting as the story is from the air. As for the tank that was involved on the “High Street” of Flers, it was one of the 49 Mk 1s that were fielded that day. Specifically, it was Tank No. 538, nicknamed “Dracula” with “D” Company, carrying the identification, D16. All of the tanks of “D” Company had “D” names. Likewise, the tanks of “C” Company had “C” names, like “Cognac”, “Cordon Rouge”, “Chartreuse”, and “Champagne”.

Tank D16 “Dracula” was called a “female”-type tank, as it did not mount any heavy guns, but rather carried six machine guns. The tank was commanded by Lt. Arthur Edmund Arnold, a Welshman from Llandudno. North Wales.

Earlier in the day of the attack on Flers, a creeping artillery barrage had led the British Army’s infantry advance. D16 and the three other “D” Company tanks were assigned, these being numbered D6, D9, and D17. They were a mix of Mk 1s that were “male”, as fitted with two quick-firing 6-pounder naval guns mounted in a sponson on each side of the hull, and four Hotchkiss machine guns, or “female” with carried five Vickers and one Hotchkiss machine guns instead. From the start of the advance, “D” Company’s tanks were left trailing behind the main force as it advanced too quickly for the slowly plodding tanks to keep up.

On belated arrival at Flers, the four tanks of “D” Company split into two components. Tank D16 drove up the road northward on its own directly into Flers, arriving on the outskirts of town at 8:20 am. Although part of the town was already under control of the British forces, there was still a lot of fighting when the tank belatedly arrived. As it came to the outskirts of Flers, D16 was closely followed and supported by troops of the British 122nd Brigade. By 8:30 am, the other three tanks had also come up the road northward to Flers and they began to work their way up the east side of the town, flanking the German positions in the rubble and ruin of the town.

Just 15 minutes later, at 8:45 am, Tank D16 made its run down the High Street, as reported above, creeping forward while firing all six of its machine guns against the heavily defended German gun positions. At precisely that instant, the 3 Squadron Morane Parasol flew overhead. Seeing the action below, the pilot circled back around and started strafing the German ground forces in support of the tank as it plodded up the street. After the successful advance through the town, the infantry quickly dug in to the north and west sides of Flers and there was a lull in the battle.

The crew of Tank D16 “Dracula”, joining with Tank D18, dismounted to prepare a quick breakfast. Having successfully engaged the enemy, a break was warranted. However, their repast was cut short when a German observation balloon to the north spotted the tanks and reported their position to a German artillery unit. As the first shells came in, the crews abandoned breakfast and returned to their tanks. They quickly repositioned to escape being hit.

Map of the battle area.

In the afternoon, Tank D16 “Dracula” was once again on the advance just north of Flers. In the heat of battle, the tank came upon a wounded New Zealander who was on the ground in the midst of the battlefield. Lt. Arnold ordered that they mount a rescue. Driving closely Lt. Arnold jumped from the tank and ran across the open ground in a daring attempt to rescue the downed man. The German machine gunners, however, were simply too good and Lt. Arnold was himself hit in the knee. D16 “Dracula” then fell to the command of Gnr Jacob Glaister, Jnr., an unassuming prewar motorcyclist who hailed from Whitehaven in Cumberland. Skillfully, Glaister commanded the tank to intercede, blocking the enemy fire, and thereby was able to rescue both men.

An unidentified artist’s sketch of the ruined church in Flers, Belgium, soon after the September 1916 battle. It was not far from here, that the engagement took place.

Just after lunch, the advance began again toward toward Gueudecourt. One of the tanks, though not D16, was hit by artillery fire and burned out. In the area between Flers and Gueudecourt, a series of German trenches were steadily overcome and occupied by the advancing British soldiers. By mid-afternoon, however, the advance was ordered to consolidate its gains and prepare positions in the event of a German counter-attack Reconnaissance aircraft from 3 Squadron and others flew extensive support, reporting on no less than 159 artillery batteries that the Germans had brought into action to support their retreat. Due to the reconnaissance reports, 70 of these batteries were targeted with counter-battery fire and 29 were destroyed.

Ultimately, though it survived that day and two weeks after, Tank D16 did not last long in combat. It never left the immediate area of Flers, though it battled numerous trench lines. Finally, on October 1, 1916, it was lost while attacking at Eaucourt l’Abbaye, located only one and a half miles to the northwest of Flers. As it happened, Tank D16, along with one other tank (designation unknown), advanced along the Flers Support Trench heading up toward Eaucourt l’Abbaye. Curving around, it came to approach the abbey from the west. Using their machine guns, the two tanks silenced the German gun positions on the west side of the abbey, but soon became stuck in the shell holes and ditches there. When II Battalion, Bavarian Infantry Regiment 17, counter-attacked from the northwest side, the tank crews could not resist. They abandoned the vehicles, setting fire to them so that they would not be captured.

A staged photograph of a German soldier being taken prisoner while crawling out from under a Mk 1 tank near Flers. Photo Credit: The Imperial War Museums, Photograph Q 3565A

Final Thoughts

Looking back, it seems that the concept of supporting armored advances with air power is far less modern than we tend to assume. It began by mere chance in the heat of battle on the very first day, at the very dawn of armored warfare. How often it happened thereafter in the Battle of the Somme or the rest of the Great War is a good question. Few reports are available to provide any additional information on the topic.

Overall, the first use of tanks did not go as well as it could have. The tank was a super weapon on the battlefield, yet the commanders knew next to nothing about how to use them. The entire experience was simply seeing the tanks in hurried parades the week before the battle, as the crews were ordered to show their new vehicles to the ground commanders daily, rather than actually preparing for the battle ahead. One tank crewman was later interviewed about his experienced and simply said, “…if only we had been able to reconnoiter… if only there had been some proper practice over ground that was like the Somme, and if only we had had a little more sleep and a little less showing off, what a marvelous story this Somme battle might have been.”

It doesn’t seem that the lessons about combining air power with tank power were learned that day at Flers. It would take years and years before a strategic and tactical doctrine that combined armored assault with air power to be born. Then, it would be the Germans, not the British, who would achieve that with their World War II era Blitzkrieg concept. Nazi Germany’s first attacks on Poland set a new standard for air and ground coordination, creating yet a new dawn in tank warfare.

An American-made Sherman tank drives through the ruins of Fler on August 17, 1944, soon after its liberation. The town was devastated twice, in both world wars. Photo Credit: The Imperial War Museums, Photograph B 9330

Notably, the “High Street” in Flers, as the British called it, would see tank combat again in World War II when the Allied forces advanced through the town. This was the second time that Flers was completely bombed out and destroyed. Once again, it would be rebuilt and today, Flers is a beautiful small Belgian town well worth a quick visit.

There are a number of war memorials nearby dedicated to the Battle of the Somme, recalling the days when today’s peace was a distant dream.

She was just the fourth woman in the world to be certified as a pilot. She was the first to fly a plane at night. She invented sky writing — and then did it at night, illuminating her letters with flares mounted to her plane. She was the first woman to “loop the loop” and only the fourth person overall in the world to do so. She was the first woman to fly the air mail and the first to pioneer the route from Chicago to New York. She was the first person to then fly the mail in Western Canada — and only the second person to deliver mail by air in all of Canada. She built one of the first airports in Texas, all the way back in 1915. She performed in countless airshows.

This was Katherine Stinson, a young lady who had barely turned 18 when she first learned to fly, hoping to make enough money to go to Europe to study music. As it happened, she sold her piano to afford flying lessons and learned the famous early pilot, Max Lillie, at the Wrights’ school in Dayton, Ohio, in July 1912. In just four hours she soloed — she was a natural.

Katherine Stinson before her Wright “B” at the Montana State Fair in 1913. She flew bags of mail from the fairgrounds to drop on Helena’s downtown post office, thus becoming the first person to deliver airmail in Montana. Photo Credit: R. H. McKay, Missoula, Montana, MHS Photo Archives

Though today few are familiar with her name, she was for a time one of the most famous women pilots in the world. Many today only know associate her last name — Stinson — with aviation because her brother, Edward “Eddie” Stinson, went on to famously build airplanes under that brand name. In truth, it was he who followed in her footsteps, not the other way around, as did her sister, Marjorie. For a time, all three flew airshows together, always under Katherine’s leadership.

Katherine Stinson showing off her stunning looks and great smile, which she used to her great advantage and popularity throughout her flying career.

Among her firsts, she adorned her plane with roses and flew in the 1913 New Year’s Day Pasadena Parade — a parade with airplanes overhead was astonishing to the assembled crowds. Today’s Parade of Roses, which accompanies the Rose Bowl football game is the descendant of that famous parade. Subsequently, she took to demonstrations of “bombing”, dropping bundles of roses from the cockpit of her airplane.

Katherine Stinson in Tokyo, Japan, during her Asia tour, in which she was the first woman pilot to fly there. Photo Credit: Library of Congress

By 1915 and 1916, Katherine had expanded her touring from the United States to the wider world, performing her aerial stunts, night flying, and sky writing. She traveled across Asia and performed in Japan and China — the first women to fly there. The Japanese were taken with her, calling her the “Air Queen”. Her flights there inspired a generation of Japanese women to pursue fields that were, until then, viewed as the sole work of the men.

Vying for Airshow Popularity

Enjoying worldwide acclaim, Katherine pressed her limits and became one of the earliest pilots to attempt a loop. In doing so, she became the first woman and reportedly the fourth person in the entire world to complete a loop, which made her a celebrity among pilots. Just one daring loop, however, wasn’t enough to satisfy her. In short order, she did it another 500 times as practice over the next six months. Thus, she could confidently pull off the maneuver at her airshows without concern. However, soon other pilots were looping and by 1916, it was part of every airshow’s typical fare. The crowds wanted more — and Katherine Stinson gave them her answer.

Dressed as the “Flying Schoolgirl”, Katherine Stinson’s showmanship on display.

Her first act of showmanship was just an act. Capitalizing on her very youthful looks, she performed under the moniker of the “Flying Schoolgirl”. Most people on first meeting thought she was still in her mid-teens, even if she was already in her twenties. She was all of 5′ 5″ and weighed 101 pounds. With such a slim physique, she would pretend to be a teen, flash a smile and a bit of her shapely figure and then swagger out to the airplane to fly, much to the surprise of the crowds who thought it an act until suddenly she was airborne and performing over their heads. She then would drop toys and candy to children. Later, she dropped pamphlets, touting suffragette causes.

Whereas most women pilots of the pioneering era were either tall and stately or, like “Pancho” Barnes, a rough and tumble sort, Katherine Stinson was unique. She was entirely feminine, light and graceful. She was never statuesque or brusque, and, as a result, she inspired thousands of women to pursue their dreams. If such a slight and unassuming, feminine figure as Katherine Stinson could fly a plane, then anything was possible for women. She was unapologetic too for her pursuit of “manly interests”, supporting the cause of the suffragettes and the Red Cross equally. When it became clear that her flying depended on the quality of the maintenance given the engine, she studied and practiced to become an aviation mechanic, mastering that field as well. She was at home in a dress, her flying pants and jacket or a mechanic’s duds — and above all, she was never anything less than the perfect picture of femininity.

When her “flying schoolgirl” act “got old”, she took to wearing jodhpurs, a loose shirt and sometimes a flying jacket. This choice of dress went over well when compared with the more conservative, stately dresses that were worn by others in that era. When in Canada, the older ladies condemned her dress as shocking and disgraceful. Predictably, the men loved it.

Katherine Stinson standing in front of her Partridge & Keller biplane, sporting her daring dress style — the conservatives of the day condemned her act as “pants on a woman!”

To build her fame, she took to doing an extra show at night, taking off and flying over the crowds with flares mounted on her airplane. She was the first pilot in the world to fly at night, which was spectacle enough. However, after a short time, she added a new idea — sky writing. With the path of her plane illuminated by the flares on the tail and light bulbs on the wingtips, she sketched out letters in the sky in cursive — her first show to do this was in California, where she spelled out the letters, CAL.

Katherine Stinson, in her biplane, races Dario Resta, winner of the 1916 Indianapolis 500, driving in his Peugeot L45 racer, on the oval track — here photographed in a practice run before tickets were sold and the crowds packed the stands.

By 1916, she was making over $1,000 per show (about $24,000 in today’s terms adjusted for inflation) and she realized that if she wanted to keep bringing in the big dollars, she would need something else — something more to do in her plane in the skies. She started to race cars around oval horse tracks, much to the enjoyment of the crowds. Famously, she raced Dario Resta, the winner of the 1916 Indianapolis 500, on track — he raced her in his Peugeot L45.

Katherine Stinson wins the race against Dario Resta, at Sheepshead Bay racetrack, Brooklyn, New York City on May 13, 1916. Photo Credit: Library of Congress

Finally, she had a biplane specially built just for her airshows — the Partridge-Keller “Looper” which was fitted first with 80 hp Gnome Rotary that Katherine had purchased from the wreckage of the crash that had killed America’s most famous male stunt pilot of the era, Lincoln Beachey. Later, desiring more reliability, not for superstitious reasons, she replaced this with a 80hp Smith 6-cylinder radial engine. With her “Looper”, she invented her signature maneuver, called the Dippy Twist Loop. Quickly, the Dippy Twist became a sensation, though today there are few pilots who know of it at all.

Diagram of the Dippy Twist Loop.

The Dippy Twist Loop

The secret of Katherine Stinson’s signature maneuver was to combine a loop with a snap roll. The snap roll was done at the very top of the loop, when the airplane was also at its slowest. At that point, she was also hanging upside down high over the heads of the adoring crowd. With a flick of the wrist and a stomp on the rudder pedals, she would flip the plane around. Then, coming out of the snap roll, she would curve her way down on the back side of the loop and pull out low over the ground.

The Dippy Twist Loop turned out to be a smash hit with the crowds. Soon, she was drawing even greater numbers to her airshows. The first time she performed the maneuver, many thought that she had lost control and was about to crash. Then, they were stunned to see her regain control at the end of the snap roll, but she was still upside-down, and then, with a deft pull on the back of the stick, retarding the throttle, she would zoom back down. The crowds cheered wildly when they realized it had been planned all along.

In the cockpit at an airshow, Katherine was always popular.

Later Life

The burgeoning airshow scene was cut short with the big news of 1917 — the Great War. That year, the USA entered the war in Europe. At the time, she was serving in the war effort — despite the neutrality of the USA at the time — as a flight instructor, teaching Canadian soldiers to fly. Once the Canadian pilots graduated from her program in Texas, they went overseas to serve in the Royal Canadian Flying Corps on the front lines against the Germans. As they were off to France, she nicknamed her stable of military pilots, “The Texas Escadrille”, borrowing the French word for squadron. The US Army soon followed suit and the pilots of the U.S. 1st Aero Squadron trained with her at San Antonio, on the field she built with the money she had earned in the airshow circuit.

Katherine Stinson in her Curtiss-Stinson Special, purpose-built for her airshow routines just prior to her leaving for France to aid in the war effort.

With the entry of the US into the war, she was keen to join up and serve the country. Although by that time she was earning as much as $2,000 per airshow ($48,000 in today’s money, corrected for inflation), she wanted nothing more than to serve her country at war. Thus, she volunteered to fly in combat, hoping to be a reconnaissance pilot. Her skills were excellent and she would have likely done well — indeed, she had trained dozens of men already who had already gone to combat. However, despite her skills, she was denied the opportunity. The military review board declared that women were unsuited for aerial combat. Undeterred, she applied a second time — predictably, she was rejected once again. Notably, she was one of the only two women pilots to attempt to enlist during the entire Great War — the other was her sister, Marjorie, who was also rejected.

Still wanting to serve, Katherine signed on as an ambulance driver and was shipped over to serve in both England and, more critically, in France where she served near the front lines. Her job was to drive wounded soldiers from the trenches to rear area hospitals. Unexpectedly, it was her wartime ambulance driving that put an end to her career as an airshow performer aviator. While in France, she was diagnosed with pneumonia. This was soon discovered rather to be tuberculosis. She was quickly bedridden and it took six months before she recovered enough to return to the USA and try to get back to flying.

Posing with her Stinson-built Curtiss biplane after the war, in which she famously delivered the mail in the USA.

Still sick, she returned to the USA, but was too frail to fly airshow performances. Her doctors advised against it. Although she flew from time to time thereafter, mostly it was distance flying rather than high stress aerobatics. She never returned to the moneymaking airshow circuit or performing aerobatics. She flew the mail on and off for a few years, often in her custom-built Curtiss Stinson Special. Ultimately, facing the lasting effects of her health condition, she studied to become an architect and left behind flying for a living. She moved to Sante Fe, New Mexico, and there, in the mid-1920s, she met and married another pilot (in 1928) — a war veteran and US fighter pilot named Miguel A. Otero, Jr. — and took up her new career as an architect. Her husband, the son of the Governor of New Mexico and a lawyer. Later, he became a judge in the state and rose to some prominence in the Republican Party.

A final photo of Katherine Simpson before she ended her flying career — on June 1, 1918, just home from the war, she had just flown her plane from Chicago to Sheepshead Bay Speedway, Brooklyn, New York.

Kathrine Stinson-Otero and Miguel Otero never had children of their own, but instead raised four adopted children, Barbara, Jerry, Jackie and Edward Stinson. These were Kathrine’s brother Jack’s children, adopted and raised. After years, she defeated the ill-effects of her tuberculosis and lived a full life. Finally, after a long illness, Katherine Stinson-Otero passed away in 1977 at the age of 86. She left a strong legacy in aviation history and inspired many other women to fly, including none other than Amelia Earhart.

Among women pilots, she should rightfully be called the first among the greats.

“A Parisian automobile paper recently published a letter from the Wright brothers to Capt. Ferber of the French army, in which statements are made that certainly need some public substantiation from the Wright brothers.”

So began an article in the January 13, 1905, issue of the Scientific American, entitled, “The Wright Aeroplane and its Fabled Performance”. Skeptical of the claims made by the Wrights, that not only had they successfully flown their aeroplane, but that they had also set numerous records, the magazine’s editors spared no enthusiasm in challenging their honesty.

The magazine’s problem, of course, was that it was entirely true, though it didn’t know it at the time. In fact, for years after the Wright Brothers first flew at Kitty Hawk, the United States was blissfully unaware of their great achievement.

The Wrights had tried to find buyers and officials who would be interested in seeing their machine, but they were instead given the cold shoulder. New reporters in the USA ignored their claims, thinking them preposterous. Their inquiries to set up meetings with government officials in Washington were ignored. The US Army never replied to their letter, despite what should have been the obvious advantage of a working aeroplane to the military campaign.

Finally, exasperated that nobody believed their claims, the Wrights had opened up contacts with potential European buyers by mail and telegraph. Their response was far more welcoming. They believed the Wrights’ claims and wanted them to come across the Atlantic for demonstrations.

Even with the open invitation, it would take the Wrights more than another two years to box up their aeroplane and get it to France on a ship. Such ocean voyages at that time were major ventures, whereas today — in large part because of the early pioneering work of the Wrights themselves — today you can just purchase a ticket and fly across the Atlantic in eight hours.

Hart O. Berg, the Wrights’ business agent in France, at left, with Wilbur Wright, at right, during the flying at Le Mans on September 12, 1908. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France

Once the Wrights did arrive in France, it wasn’t long before they were thrilling crowds with their demonstration. Further, they opened more serious negotiations to license their invention to the French military (earlier reported in the Scientific American itself as being for a fee of 1 million Francs). For the Wrights, Europe was the promising business venture they had needed — any funding was welcome since bicycle shop had sustained them for so long could only do so on a shoestring budget.

The Scientific American’s editors, however, could not have foreseen how the Wrights would be welcomed just three years after they published their doubting article. In that 1905 article, they had cited the many records that the Wrights had claimed to have set. The editors’ tone was dripping with sarcasm and disbelief. Perhaps the only reason they reported accurately on the distances and times flown of each record was to support their belief that it was all a pack of lies. That these record-setting flights had taken place in America and had been documented mattered little to them — they still were doubt.

In the letter in question it is alleged that on September 26, the Wright motor-driven aeroplane covered a distance of 17.961 kilometers in 18 minutes and 9 seconds, and that its further progress was stopped by lack of gasoline. On September 29 a distance of 19.57 kilometers was covered in 19 minutes and 55 seconds, the gasoline supply again having been exhausted. On September 30 the machine traveled 16 kilometers in 17 minutes and 15 seconds; this time a hot bearing prevented further remarkable progress. Then came some eye-opening records. Here they are:

The Scientific American, despite its authoritative position and scientific approach, was having none of it. The editors made reference to the best funded effort at achieving powered flight in the United States, that by Professor Samuel Langley, who had crashed his government-funded airplane into the Potomac River.

“It seems that these alleged experiments were made at Dayton, Ohio, a fairly large town, and that the newspapers of the United States, alert as they are, allowed these sensational performances to escape their notice. When it is considered that Langley never even successfully launched his man-carrying machine, that Langley’s experimental model never flew more than a mile, and that Wright’s mysterious aeroplane covered a reputed distance of 38 kilometers at the rate of one kilometer a minute, we have the right to exact further information before we place reliance on these French reports.”

Wilbur Wright at the controls of his airplane, at Le Mans, France, on August 11, 1908. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France

A Penchant for Secrecy

The Wrights’ own penchant for secrecy worked against them. They were simply hoping to protect their knowledge so that they could capitalize on it and make money, however, that reticence at public display worked against them. Many were left in the opinion that they were fabricating their claims. As the Scientific American argued:

“Unfortunately, the Wright brothers are hardly disposed to publish any substantiation or to make public experiments, for reasons best known to themselves. If such sensational and tremendously important experiments are being conducted in a not very remote part of the country, on a subject in which almost everybody feels the most profound interest, is it possible to believe that the enterprising American reporter, who, it is well known, comes down the chimney when the door is locked in his face — even if he has to scale a fifteen-story sky-scraper to do so — would not have ascertained all about them and published them broadcast long ago?”

That the Wrights were selling or licensing the rights to their invention to the French was met with disbelief. Indeed, the Scientific American noted, wouldn’t the US Government be a better buyer? What they didn’t know, of course, was that the Wrights letters to the government and military had been completely ignored.

“Why particularly, as it is further alleged, should the Wrights desire to sell their invention to the French government for a “million” francs. Surely their own is the first to which they would be likely to apply.”

In 1908, when the Wrights finally made it to Europe, they were welcomed with open arms. After the first demonstration flight, the Wrights became the toast of France — and then the toast of the entire continent. The French aviators, who had been in an extraordinary competition among each other, as they struggled to perfect their own designs, were shocked at far ahead the Wrights’ design was.

The French aviators were afraid of tilting their aeroplanes in a turn, thinking that this would result in a crash. Instead, they would skid around, keeping the wings level and try to orient the aeroplane with the rudder alone. However, the Wright machine, on its first demonstration flight shattered their illusions — Orville banked into a steep turn and then soared nimbly around the field, taking the Flyer wherever he wished with seeming ease and confidence.

Thérèse Peltier, one of the world’s first women to fly (as a passenger) with Léon Delagrange in his biplane, on July 8, 1908, in Milan, Italy. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France

Léon Delagrange, one of France’s leading aviators and designers, was resigned to the simple fact that the Americans had beaten to mastering the air, despite the collective efforts of all of the French pilots in the Aero-Club de France. He quipped simply, “Nous sommes battus”, which translates from French as “We are beaten.” The comment was personal — just two weeks earlier, Delagrange had set the new record in France for the longest flight on September 6, 1908 — at 29 minutes, 53 seconds aloft. The Wrights didn’t just nudge past his record, but crushed it with a time of 1 hour, 31 minutes, 25 seconds — a flight they achieved on September 21, 1908, at Auvours. It would be nearly another year, on August 25, 1909, before another French aviator, Louis Paulhan, finally beat the Wrights’ record.

The Wrights show their airplane to the King of Spain while at Pau, France. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France

Orville and Wilbur’s sister, Katherine, was soon brought to Europe to organize the calendar of events, go to meetings, and discuss the invention with potential buyers and meet celebrities, royalty and nobility alike. The Wrights could not have managed it without her. It took a lot of time maintaining the aeroplane, setting up the launch track and the weighted tower that launched the Wright Flyer into the air. She played a key role for them, ensuring that everything was properly handled — indeed, the Wrights’ efforts were a family business in all respects.

The Wright plane is prepared for launching on its rail, with the launch catapult tower in plain view — the weight is already hauled up to the top in preparation for launch.

Katherine Wright proved perfect for the role. She was down-to-earth, direct and entirely American in her unassuming nature, which won over the highest elites of Europe. She met with and was feted by the Spanish King, Alfonso XIII, the English king, Edward VII, and the King of Italy, Victor XX. The German Crown Prince, Friedrich Wilhelm, was enchanted by her and amazed at the Wrights’ aeroplane. The European journals, unlike the doubting American press, ate it up. To demonstrate confidence in their Flyer, Katherine was taken aloft as a passenger — twice — making her one of the very first women to fly.

In October 1908, from Le Mans, France, Wilbur Wright wrote that, “Princes & millionaires are thick as fleas.” Indeed, the three Wrights were celebrated as heroes and invited to dinners wherever they went. Crowds gathered for their demonstration flights and newspapers published breathless reports. The French military was astonished at the aeroplane that the Wrights had brought over and confirmed their interest in a business deal to license the technology.

Film of the Wright Brothers’ flights in France 1908

In the half year they flew in 1908, the Wright Brothers performed more than 200 demonstration flights in Europe. They traveled to Italy and demonstrated the aeroplane there as well. A licensing contract was negotiated to manufacture the plane in Germany. Finally, as 1908 came to a close, they were set to return to America. Ultimately, the Wrights would make three trips to Europe, marketing their aeroplane designs and licensing the construction of Wright Flyers.

During their first trip, the French government awarded the Wrights that nation’s highest medal, the Ordre national de la Légion d’honneur. This was awarded to both Wilbur and Orville Wright — and their sister Katherine, who had become nearly as famous as the two brothers for her own exploits and the key role she played. Indeed, she had been an essential part of their efforts from the beginning when they were struggling to develop the aeroplane. While in Europe, she took on a large role, even learning French so that she could serve as partner in their business efforts.

Orville Wright, at left with his cane and still recovering from his crash in Virginia, with Wilbur in France in 1909.

Conclusion

The Scientific American article of 1905 could not have known that the Wrights European fans would soon be vindicated. Their piece ended with the insinuation of dishonesty when they wrote, “We certainly want more light on the subject.” Indeed, the Wrights would show their stuff in the end. They would secure their place in history for the first successful heavier-than-air powered flight.

In 1909, soon after their return to America, the US Army took an interest in the Wrights’ aeroplane and the first official trials were held.

As for the Scientific American by that point, few doubters remained.

After the Wright’s return from Europe back to the USA, the Scientific American made amends in a way when it featured them on the front page and declared, “The Wright Brothers, inventors of the first practical flying machine, and the leading aviators of the world.” Source: Archive.org

From the Archives

When the Wrights demonstrated their Flyer to the US Army, they suffered a catastrophic crash, killing an early Army aviator and nearly killing Orville himself.

Lieutenant Anselme Léon Emile Marchal took off into the gathering evening skies of France. After a brisk turn around his airfield, he headed east into the night. This was one of the most Special Missions of the war so far. His target was Berlin and rather than returning to his base, his route would continue eastward to cross Russian lines and find a safe landing spot there. Extra fuel tanks had been fitted to carry him the distance of nearly 900 miles. It was hoped that the night would hide his passage from German interceptors.

Lt. Anselme Marchal’s story is not of a “Shuttle Mission” taking place in World War II, but rather, one from exactly 100 years ago. He took off into history on June 20, 1916. If his “Special Mission was completed, it would set a new world record for distance. Marchal’s plane was no four-engine bomber, however, but a single seat, singe engine Nieuport 12 biplane. His chief risk was the poor reliability of his own plane’s little rotary engine. To bolster his odds of making it, he carried a tool box with spare spark plugs stowed in the cockpit.

As it turned out, Lt. Marchal would desperately need them.

Anselme Marchal, a well-known early French aviator, shown here in prewar France, c.1911.

The Special Mission

A year before, a German Taube monoplane had overflown Paris and dropped a sack of leaflets in an early attempt at psychological operations. In the wake of that mission, Lt. Marchal, himself a pre-war pilot of some fame, hatched a plan to respond in kind. Lt. Marchal requested the authority to undertake his special mission and joined the French squadron, MS 49, based in Corcieux in the Vosges region of France.

His effort was approved at the highest level and he was backed by the French Chief of Staff himself, General Castelnau. The French had learned from the failure of the Germans, as their sack of leaflets had not opened after it had been thrown onto the streets of Paris from high above. Lt. Marchal would drop his leaflets by emptying the sack completely into the wind stream. Critically, his flight would also demonstrate to the German people that France could bomb Berlin whenever it so chose.

Lt. Marchal in the cockpit of his Nieuport, during the weeks leading up to the Special Mission.

In all, 5,000 leaflets were printed for the mission to Berlin, carrying the following message (as translated from German by the editors at Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club of the United Kingdom in its July 27, 1916, issue):

We might have bombarded the open town of Berlin and thus killed women and innocent children, but we contented ourselves with throwing the following proclamation: — TO THE PEOPLE OF BERLIN, — Many clear-sighted Germans know to-day that the war was let loose by the military advisers at the Berlin and Vienna Courts. All the official and semi-official lies and perversions cannot do away with the fact that the German Government, with the connivance of the Austrian Government, desiring this war, consciously and with premeditation made it inevitable.

Another set of leaflets were printed with the same message for dropping on the streets of Vienna, Austria.

Lt. Anselme Marchal stands in front of the cowling of his specially modified Nieuport 10.

Flight Planning

The route of Lt. Marchal’s flight was planned to take off from his airfield at Malzéville, near Nancy. Once aloft, he would fly northeast directly to Berlin, using his compass to navigate by night. Once in the vicinity of Berlin, the lights of the city would guide him in. He would drop his leaflets over the city center, then turn his plane east-southeast to head toward Rovno in Russia (known today as Rivne in the Ukraine). This route that would take him over Poland and into Russian territories that were occupied by the forces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which itself was allied with Germany in the Great War and locked in trench warfare with the Czarist forces.

An extremely rare photo of Lt. Marchal just before his mission, standing before his Nieuport.

By dawn if all went well, Marchal would be deep into Poland. With the rising sun, the risk of interception by air was almost non-existent. The Eastern Front was not as active in the air as the Western, where air battles raged in the skies over the trenches. After reaching Rovno, he would rest, refuel, and then take off to fly to Vienna, Austria. There, he would drop another sack of leaflets over that city before turning toward Italy. He would make his landing on the Po plain.

Lt. Marchal’s highly modified Nieuport 10, the two fuel pumps clearly visible on the rear struts of the landing gear.

Aircraft Modifications

To make the flight, Marchal secured a Nieuport 10 and had it extensively modified. Instead of the plane’s usual small fuel tank, which could give the pilot just 2.5 hours of flight time, his specially-built Nieuport 10 carried 354 liters of petrol and 88 liters of oil. The additional fuel tank was mounted behind the pilot in the fuselage — to move the fuel to the front tank (and thereby engine), two Astra fuel pumps were mounted onto the undercarriage rear struts. Thus, when the front tank ran low, Lt. Marchal would start the pumps to refill the front tank from the rear. This was enough to stay aloft for 14 hours. To mount the fuel tank, the Nieuport’s second cockpit (for the observer) was used, making Lt. Marchal’s plane a single seat version of the plane.

The extra fuel tank required even further modifications to the plane. The plane could not carry the added weight of the fuel needed for the flight. Therefore, a much larger set of biplane wings were fitted, increasing the total wing area from 18 m² to 25 m². As a result, the Nieuport 10′s new take-off weight was increased to about 2,200 pounds (1,000 kilograms). The empty weight had increased from 410 kg to 535 kg. The little plane was powered by a le Rhône 9C rotary engine, boasting all of 80 hp — the engine was chosen because it was the most reliable one produced in France. Even today, many surviving le Rhône rotaries can be spun around freely, giving proof to the engine’s near clockwork attention in manufacturing.

Chart of Lt. Marchal’s planned flight, sketched out on a map depicting Europe at the start of the Great War.

The Flight

Lt. Anselme Marchal’s flight to Berlin came off perfectly. He took off from Nancy at 9:30 pm. At 3:00 am (Berlin time), he arrived on course in the vicinity of Berlin. The city’s lights were plainly visible in the distance. It was a simple matter to swing the nose of the plane onto a final adjusted course, and head toward the city’s center. For 15 minutes, at an altitude of approximately 500 feet, he circled the city below, picking out landmarks. Then, he opened the sack of leaflets. Without difficulty, he dumped the entire sack into the wind — 5,000 leaflets fluttered down to the city below, spreading widely and catching on roofs, landing on streets and alleys and lightly covering parks and byways. In the morning, the citizens of Berlin would awake to read the message printed on the leaflets — that the city could have been bombed the night before as they slept.

German reconnaissance photograph of the French airfield at Malzéville, from which Lt. Marchal departed on his Special Mission.

With the sack of leaflets emptied, he turned his plane onto his new course toward Russian lines. A few hours later, the first rays of dawn set the horizon aglow. By then, he was already over occupied Poland. Ominously, his engine began to run rough. At first, it was just a change in the sound. Then, as he continued to press eastward, the engine began to run rough. Soon, it was losing power. He could hold altitude for now, but it was clear that his spark plugs were steadily fouling — or failing.

Le Rhône 9 Cylinder Rotary Engine. Photo Credit: Greg Goebel

Finally, with a faltering engine, he selected a field by Chelm, Poland, just southeast of south-east of Lublin. He knew that the territory was occupied by the Austrians, who were allied with Germany in the war. He chose a field not only for its suitability for an emergency landing, but also for its remoteness. Once down, he would repair the engine as best he could and, if his luck held, he would be off again before the enemy troops could arrive on the scene. He had no doubt that his landing would be observed from miles around, spurring a response, probably with troops arriving by truck to investigate. Every minute on the ground added to the danger.

The Forced Landing

When he put down, he was just 60 miles from the Russian trenches, at the very westernmost part of the Russian and Ukrainian territories (what is now the easternmost edge of Poland). If his engine hadn’t given out and had just run another hour, he could have made it into allied territory.

As it happened, he made a perfect landing in a remote field near Chelm. As soon as the plane was stopped, he quickly climbed out and went to work on the engine. He was well prepared for this — he had spare spark plugs and the wrench needed. As fast as he could, he tried to change the spark plugs — nearly burning his hands on the hot engine. As the minutes ticked by, he changed the first plug, then rotated the engine by pulling on the prop and got to work on the second plug. He could sense the Austrian army closing in — and then, he could hear the sound of their approaching trucks. Moments later, he saw them coming down the road toward the field he was in.

A contemporary photograph of Chelm, in what was then occupied Poland. Source: Photo Postcard

There was nothing left to do but to hurried put in the second spark plug — knowing that so many were still left unchanged — and run around the wing, lean into the cockpit, and flip the magneto switches to on. Then, he ran back around to the nose and gave the prop a mighty heave. The engine didn’t catch. He pulled on it again to spin it. Still nothing. Exasperated, he pulled again. And again. The engine wouldn’t start. Some of the remaining spark plugs, yet unchanged, were too fouled.

With a final heave, he tried his last effort. Then the Austrian soldiers were on him. With nothing left to do, he put his hands up and surrendered. At first, the soldiers couldn’t believe that he had flown in all the way from France. The roundels on the wings and fuselage were clearly painted with the Tricoleur, however, and the man before them was definitely French. It would be days later that they would learn that he had dropped leaflets on Berlin.

Garros, at right, and Marchal, at left, during their captivity at Magdeburg.

Prison and Escape

Despite his capture. Lt. Marchal had set a new world record for distance — it was logged and reported variously as either 1,380 km or 1,410 km distance flown. He didn’t feel much like celebrating, however, as he was brought into a prison camp at Salzerbach. Lt. Marchal immediately decided to attempt an escape. For the next six months, he was shunted through a number of prison camps — moving against first to Landshut, then Ingolstadt, and finally to Magdeburg — in Scharnhorst prison in Germany. In that time, he attempted three escapes, once only being captured when a fellow escapee fell into the water and nearly drowned. To save him, Marchal was forced to reveal themselves to the German soldiers nearby.

Lt. Marchal receives the Légion d’Honneur with Garros, at left; both awarded together for their exploits.Source: Contemporary Postcard in France

At Scharnhorst camp, he was interned with another famous French aviator, Roland Garros, another pilot well known to Marchal as they were both pioneering pilots together in prewar France. At once, the two began a plot their escape. Though Garros did not speak any German, Marchal was fluent, which they hoped would aid them in their attempt. They developed a plan to simply walk out of the camp at dusk while disguised as German officers. To do this, however, was no easy feat — they would have to develop uniforms which, in the evening light, could pass for the real thing.

Lt. Marchal described how they made the uniforms in his own writing — notably, they chose the ranks of full colonels in hopes that they could use the elevated rank to reduce any potential inquiry or questioning:

In this we washed our two French officers coats, until they ceased to be horizon blue and became campaign grey. The buttons we carved out of wood with penknives, and painted them greenish bronze. Out of our pilots’ overalls we got enough fur to make collars for the coats. One of our friends made us caps. They were a great success. He made the frames out of pieces of cardboard from a box. The tops he covered with blue cloth cut out of a pair of trousers, and then made bands out of a red-flannel belt. This he stole from an old colonel who wore it at night. We hoped the poor old man would not catch a chill. With some nickel he made cockades such as the Germans carried on their caps; and no one at a distance, or in a bad light, could have told them from the real thing. They were “creations.” We cut down some slats of wood into the shape of sabres and blacked them over with shoe-blacking.

German officer’s uniform of the First World War — officers dressed impeccably and tailored their uniforms, which they carried in trunks to the front lines.

Incredibly, the plan worked. On the late evening of February 14, 1918, the two men simply walked out of the prison compound to make their escape. When stopped at the first and second gate by two sentries, Marchal roared about how they had been insulted with cat calls by the French prisoners. He demanded that the soldiers carry a message to the camp commandant that the camp should be brought to order at once. The sentries stood at attention and let them pass, in visible fear of such a superior officer. A third sentry farther on had heard the screaming at the first two and let them pass without a word. Finally, at the fourth and final gate further along, the German guard demanded to see their orders and papers. Though the men had forged papers, they hoped to not have to use them.

Ever fast on his feet, Lt. Marchal again feigned anger. This time, the ruse was that he was insulted at the request. He drew himself up and roared at the top of lungs that they had had to show the papers three times already! The sentry, recognizing that to get to his final gate, the two men would have already had to walk through three other gates, chose to avoid the fight with a senior officer. He came to attention and waved them through. They walked away from the camp, crossing a bridge, and disappeared into the night.

Running late to catch the train in Magdeburg, they arrived at the station just in time. Garros and Marchal were stopped by a German station guard, but Marchal pointed out that the train was leaving and that they had to get on board at once. The man obligingly helped them climb up and even shut the carriage door for them. From there, they made their way overland to the north. Eventually they crossed the English Channel and made it to England. From there, they were repatriated to France, arriving together as heroes.

For their extraordinary deeds and the escape, Lt. Marchal was made a Chevalier de la Légion du Honneur. He was also promoted to Captain in the French military. With the end of the war, he continued to serve, but not for long — he would die an untimely death in 1921 at just 38 years of age.

Burial of the child victims of the attack on Karlsruhe, Germany, which took place just days after Lt. Marchal’s flight.

One More Thought

The nobility of the French is implied, that they chose not to bomb the city of Berlin and its civilian population. The British, however, highlight the numerous Zeppelin attacks — the world’s first strategic bombing campaign, some say — that targeted the average Londoner in the streets, causing many casualties. This story fits neatly into and promotes a “good war” vs. “bad war” narrative, however, it is overly simplistic and outright false. Both sides were at war and it was a war seemingly without limits.

The translation is: “During the Great War, Karlsruhe experienced ten airstrikes. The heaviest, on June 22, 1916, brought a toll of 120 dead and 169 wounded, including many women and children who were watching a circus performance at the fairgrounds.”

The attack took place mere days after Lt. Marchal’s valiant Special Mission and involved 60 French bombers, taking place on a German religious holiday for the nation’s children. The raid was planned to cause the maximum casualties among the innocent and is considered by some nothing short of a war crime. Today, the people of Karlsruhe still recall the attack as the “Kindermord von Karlsruhe”.

During the Battle of Britain, in nearly every RAF operations hut, you would find a small poster on the wall entitled, “Ten of My Rules for Air Fighting”. Written by the RAF ace, Adolph Gysbert Malan DSO & Bar DFC (aka “Sailor” Malan), these rules of aerial combat saved many lives and provided the basis for the tactical mindset of the RAF fighter arm. Like the Dicta Boelcke from the early days of World War I, Sailor Malan’s rules are at the very foundation of a fighter pilot’s training. Most of the rules apply even today, more than 75 years after they were written.

The Ten Rules

Sailor Malan’s Ten Rules were as follows (as emphasized with underlining in the original):

TEN of MY RULES for Air Fighting.

Wait until you see the whites of his eyes. Fire short bursts of 1 to 2 seconds and only when your sights are definitely ‘ON’.

Whilst shooting think of nothing else, brace the whole of the body, have both hands on the stick, concentrate on your ring sight.

Always keep a sharp lookout. “Keep your finger out”!

Height gives You the initiative.

Always turn and face the attack.

Make your decisions promptly. It is better to act quickly even though your tactics are not the best.

Never fly straight and level for more than 30 seconds in the combat area.

When diving to attack always leave a proportion of your formation above to act as top guard.

INITIATIVE, AGGRESSION, AIR DISCIPLINE, and TEAM WORK are the words that MEAN something in Air Fighting.

Go in quickly – Punch hard – Get out!

Sailor Milan in a No. 74 Squadron Supermarine Spitfire.

Who was Sailor Malan?

Adolph Gysbert Malan was born in South Africa in 1910 and was 30 years old at the time of the Battle of Britain. He had joined the RAF at age 25 (in 1935), when the RAF began its expansion in the years leading up to WWII. At the height of the Battle of Britain, he was the commander of RAF No. 74 Squadron. In large part due to his leadership qualities, maturity and skill, the unit became one of the top squadrons in the entire RAF.

Malan’s nickname was “Sailor” and modern generations of pilots have little idea of his actual given name — and even if they did, few would pronounce it well enough to do the man justice. Thus, most know him today simply as Sailor Malan. In the months leading up to the beginning of World War II, Sailor Malan was a Flight Lieutenant serving in a Spitfire squadron in France.

No. 74 Squadron pilots — from left, Roger Boulding and his dog, Sam, John Freeborn (the pilot who shot down the Hurricanes in the Battle of Barking Creek, and Polish pilot Henryk Szczesny, playing cards while standing by during the Battle of Britain.

After a false start when the squadron was ordered to intercept “enemy planes” that turned out to be returning RAF bombers, No. 74 Squadron had its first combat engagement on September 6, 1939. Once again, however, the engagement turned out to be RAF planes returning from a mission. This time, the unit misidentifyied the planes as German and Acting F/L Sailor Malan ordered an attack. In the ensuing melee, his flight downed two RAF Hurricanes. Later on, the engagement was called the “Battle of Barking Creek”. A series of courts martial followed for all involved. Despite apparently lying to cover up his own responsibility in the matter, in the end, Sailor Malan was acquitted of all charges — a war was on and probably the courts martial recognized that mistakes happen. Above all, there was a shortage of pilots, which also tempered the zeal to pursue the case.

Messerschmitt Bf 109 shot down during the Battle of Britain by No. 74 Squadron pilot, Sergeant E. A. (Boy) Mould. The plane was damaged and made a forced landing in Dover. The German pilot, Leutnant Johann Boehm, of 4./JG51, was injured and survived. He was captured and survived the war.

It wasn’t long afterward that Sailor Malan began racking up kills. By the time of Dunkirk in June 1940, he had become an ace with five confirmed victories. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his deeds. Fighter tactics were steadily evolving under Malan’s leadership and the RAF followed his lead abandoning the “Vic formation”. That ill-fated tactical formation was better suited to parades than combat flying. No. 74 lead the way by mimicking the German “finger four”, a formation that they had seen first hand in combat, recognizing its advantages.

By the time of the Battle of Britain, Malan’s promotion was affirmed as a full Flight Lieutenant. On August 8, as the Battle of Britain raged, he was given full command of RAF No. 74 Squadron. Three days later, under his command, the squadron claimed 38 enemy aircraft downed, the day thereafter known as “Sailor’s August the Eleventh”. Days after that, he received his second DFC.

Following those events, Sailor Malan steadily continued to score victories. He also received the DSO. However, his war in the air officially ended in 1941, when he was ordered to “fly a desk”. As consolation, he was given command of Biggin Hill Airfield. He ended the war — a survivor perhaps in large part because he had been assigned to a desk (at which he bridled) — with 27 confirmed kills, 7 additional shared, three probables, and 16 damaged enemy aircraft to his official credit.

A high point of his late war experience was leading the 145 (Free French) Fighter Wing and flying over the beaches of D-Day on the afternoon of June 6, 1944. It was a proper way to return to France, a country he and his mates of No. 74 Squadron had left “in a hurry” just prior to Dunkirk in 1940.

End Notes

Sailor Malan’s post war life back in South Africa was tumultuous. Never shying from a risk, he headed up a group of anti-Apartheid veterans called, “Torch Commando”. Under Malan’s leadership, the organization grew to over 250,000 members. He never lost his fighting spirit, despite being ostracized by the government of South Africa for his political position. Being a war hero, however, insulated him from much of the retribution the Government of South Africa would have liked to dish out.

Sadly, Sailor Malan died in 1963. He was finally downed by Parkinson’s Disease. Based on his popularity in South Africa, an endowment was raised in his name as a research fund dedicated to uncovering the causes of Parkinson’s. Sailor Malan’s fund remains engaged and active today — in that regard, his last battle is still ongoing.

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]]>http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/08/nearly-100-years-ago/feed/1http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/08/nearly-100-years-ago/The Great Air War by Stereoscopehttp://feedproxy.google.com/~r/historicwings/~3/u7Jvpl6FfXM/
http://fly.historicwings.com/2016/08/the-great-air-war-by-stereoscope/#commentsMon, 08 Aug 2016 06:30:09 +0000HWhttp://fly.historicwings.com/?p=9108Published on August 8, 2016by Thomas Van Hare

On the home front during the Great War, 100 years ago, 3D viewing of photographs was very popular, the most common means being with a Holmes Stereoscope. Viewers simply inserted a stereo photo card into the slot on their Stereoscope, then peered through the eye lens. Thus, they could see the scene as if they were there, with their own two eyes — albeit in black and white.

AEF Aerial Photography in 1918, using an early camera system, which the observer simply held over the side of the fuselage to get the image.

The Library of Congress in Washington, DC, has thousands of stereo photo cards in its collection. A handful feature aircraft from the Great War (1914 to 1918), giving us a fascinating view of the battlefield as it was — if in sepia tone and black and white.

Men and Machines

Five stereo photo cards from the collection depict the men and the aeroplanes of the day — simple photos that seem dated in their composition and yet which come alive when viewed with a stereoscope or by the above methods.

The first juxtaposes a prewar cavalry reconnaissance unit with a single airplane seen flying overhead. The airplane was an extraordinary reconnaissance innovation, providing wider, better, and more timely coverage of the battlefield than any lightly armed force of men on horseback could ever hope to achieve. When the Germans first advanced into France in 1914, they were preceded by 60,000 cavalry reconnaissance troops — virtually all were lost in the first months of the conflict. Airplanes offered a much better solution to the challenges of the evolving battlefield, at much less cost, both in budget and in lives lost.

“Scouts, old and new, French cavalry and army airplanes.” Gelatin silver print, mount 9 x 18 cm, taken between 1914 and 1918, published in 1923.

The second card provides a fascinating view of a French bomber readying for take off, with its vast expanse of wings and wiring providing an ideal subject for 3D stereoscopic viewing. In the notes on the back of the image, the publisher of the photo poetically describes the airplanes of the era as “Hornets of the Blue”.

One of the cards shows a pair of U.S. observation planes at an unidentified location in France, probably taken in 1918. The publisher of the photo notes on the back of the print that, “Today, the observation airplane is the eye of an army. Observation planes carry two men, a pilot and an observer. The pilot runs the machine’ the observer, telescope in hand, scans the enemy trenches and the terrain for miles in their rear.”

“U.S. observation airplane on west front, France.” Gelatin silver print, mount 9 x 18 cm, taken between 1914 and 1918, published in 1923.

Another photo card shows a French aeronautical advisor, apparently sent to Fort Monroe, Virginia, to explain the Nieuport 17 Bébé to the US Army’s airmen. The identity of the individual, “Lieut. LeMaitre”, is revealed, but we find no other information about him, nor his trip to the USA other than what the publisher of the photo wrote on the back: “Both England and France sent some of their aviation specialists to the United States for the purpose of instructing American officers. Famous French aviators arrived here to help in the of the 10,000 men needed to conduct aerial operations against the German fleet and U-boat bases. Many of these men wore decorations received for exploits in naval battles and some bore scars from encounters with German airplanes.”

The next stereo photo card depicts soldiers watching an aerial combat. The publisher wrote at length: “One might easily imagine that we are looking here at a peacetime crowd of spectators at an exhibition of ‘stunt flying’, so intent are the faces of these Italian soldiers as they gaze into the sky. But the spectacle upon which they are looking is far more thrilling than any ordinary exhibition, for here two aviators, skilled in all the tricks of their perilous profession, are measuring their courage and wits against one another in a battle which wil almost certainly end in the death of either the Italian or the Austrian flyer…. The Italian airmen were famous for their skill and daring and they gained many brilliant victories over the Austrian and German aviators, so it is probably no tame affair upon which these Italian soldiers are looking as they stand absorbed in the street of this little town behind the lines.”

“Watching an airplane combat over the Italian lines.” Gelatin silver print, mount 9 x 18 cm, taken between 1914 and 1918, published in 1923.

The View from Above

The collection even holds two stereo photo cards that depict scenes taken from airplanes. Aerial photography of the trenches was done with stereoscopic equipment, creating the interstitial distance by taking timed photos as the plane flew overhead. By placing the resulting prints side by side so they can be viewed with a stereoscopic apparatus, a lot of hidden details emerge.

A table showing the timings involved based on altitudes, as depicted in the book “Airplane Photography”, by Herbert E. Ives, and published by J. B. Lippincott Company in 1920, just two years after the end of WWI.

On the first of these two photo cards, the name of the town shown is not revealed. These leaves us to wonder — was this even Germany? What the publisher did write was this: “There were no impassable trenches in the skies, no charted lanes beyond which lay destruction. The airplane roamed the sky at will, sometimes over enemy trenches, sometimes scouting miles to the rear, sometimes hovering over rail heads or dropping bombs on supply stations. The only thing that could bar its progress was an enemy plane. Hence the battles for supremacy in the air…. Daily the planes soared aloft, separated, and shot away to spy out the land beneath, each having its appointed section to cover.”

“The eyes of the army, view of German town from American airplane.” Gelatin silver print, mount 9 x 18 cm, taken between 1914 and 1918, published in 1923.

The shell-pocked front lines were a horrific sight, even from above. Stereoscopic photographs allowed even the slightest elevations of the land to be discerned, though translating that knowledge to the battlefield proved a difficult challenge from the beginning of the war to its end. As the publisher wrote of this photo: “”But here by the click of a camera shutter, the airman secures the map of the whole area and can carry it back to be examined at leisure behind his own lines by men skilled in deciphering the meaning of every detail which the photograph shows. During the war photographs such as this of the hostile areas were taken in untold thousands by the daring aviators of both sides, often in ‘mosaics’, which could be fitted together so as to show a whole extensive territory.”

“Aerial view of trenches and shell holes.” Gelatin silver print, mount 9 x 18 cm, taken between 1914 and 1918, published in 1923.

Viewing Techniques

To view the above stereo photos in 3D, you can either print them out and use a stereo viewer or, for those who want to learn a bit about stereo photo interpretation, you can view them with the “cross-eyed method”. Just look at the image and cross your eyes, focusing on the ‘third image’ that will appear between the two images on the outside. If you can focus on that, you’ll see the result in 3D. This method is widely practiced in the old days of stereo photo interpretation by military analysts.

Birdseye view of a battlefield on the Somme front. Photograph shows a battlefield on the Somme front in France during World War I, with French troops moving through trenches and shell craters into an area formerly held by the German army. Caption on verso states “This remarkable photograph was made by a French aviator from a height of 590 feet.”

Final Thoughts

There were thousands of photographs of the front taken from the air, yet most are lost to us today. No doubt, they were either destroyed or put in archives that may never been opened again. At least a handful of photographs, in stereo views, have survived. These can be seen today because they were reproduced by a civilian company that sought their sale to the general public, those who had their much loved Holmes Stereoscopes at the coffee table.

Just after the end of the war, a French Naval pilot, Jacques Trolley de Prévaux, made a movie from his airplane, flying over the destruction of the Belgian town of Ypres and showing the shell-pocked battlefield of Chemin des Dames.

His film is a haunting reminder of the true cost of war.

Bonus Photo

By applying modern computational dimensionality concepts to a portion of one of these old photographs, we can create a reasonable 3D facsimile of the Somme battlefield as it was seen by that unnamed French aviator in 1916 — fought exactly 100 years ago. Please let us know if you experience the added dimensionality by posting a comment below!

The battle of the Somme, French troops in the trenches during the fighting — a modern 3D rendering created by Historic Wings Magazine. Click to view full size!

“It was 9 in the evening, when the rat-tat of aerial machine guns lured me out of my quarters, and I saw at a height of several thousand yards five aeroplanes in a hot fight; two Fokkers and three English and French biplanes.”

Max Immelmann, “Der Adler von Lille” — one of Germany’s first great aces.

On June 18, 1916, Max Immelmann, the famous German ace known as the “Eagle of Lille” (German: “Der Adler von Lille”) met his end in aerial combat. His final flight was over the village of Sallaumines in the Arras Sector, located in northern France. The Royal Flying Corps awarded the victory to Second Lieutenant George R. McCubbin, who received both the the Distinguished Service Order and the Distinguished Service Medal for his work.

Today, almost exactly 100 years later, a controversy still remains on what happened.

Three Main Versions of Events

There are three versions of events that are often told. The first is that Immelmann’s guns shot off his own propeller, causing his Fokker Eindecker E.III to shake itself to pieces in midair. The second claim is that Immelmann was shot down by McCubbin’s fire at the very top of his trademark maneuver, the Immelmann Turn, which is today well-known as a half-loop with a half-roll at the top to return the attacking plane upright. A third version persists in some circles, that Immelmann was killed by ground fire, though few still adhere to that theory.

All of these explanations are wrong in varying degrees. First, Lt. McCubbin himself never fired a single shot in the fight — though his observer did, so the victory should be credited where credit is due. And second, about that part involving the Immelmann Turn? We’ve got that completely wrong too.

A Fokker Eindecker, similar to the one flown by Max Immelmann on his last flight — note that Immelmann’s plane sported two machine guns.

What Actually Happened (Most Probably)

At 9:45 pm, Max Immelmann, flying a Fokker E.III, serial 246/16, lead a flight of four E.IIIs in an attack on three British reconnaissance airplanes of 25 Squadron. The British planes of 25 Squadron were F.E.2b two-seat biplanes. They had a simple mission — to photograph German infantry positions and artillery along the front lines near Arras, and then quickly return to base. The British planes were vastly outclassed by the German Fokker Eindecker E.III types and the odds were extreme — four German fighters against three British recon planes.

In fact, the E.IIIs were faster, more powerful, better armed, and more maneuverable than the F.E.2bs. Where the British recon planes could only pull around slowly in a turn, the E.IIIs were quick and could be seen darting in and making high speed firing passes into the enemy formation.

One of the No. 25 Sqn RFC FE2b, serial number 6341, “Zanzibar No.1” after captured by the Germans when forced down by Lt. Heinrich Gontermann of Jasta 5 (16 May 1916).

A contemporary German eyewitness described it this way:

“The tiny, swift Fokkers were like swallows compared with the big, lumbering, sure flying double-deckers. There was an increased liveliness aloft as the Fokkers overtook the biplanes and swooped down upon them with frightful speed. Amid a mad rattle of five machine guns our hearts stood still. Now the Fokkers have reached the enemy, and they have turned themselves loose again. Then they pounce with fresh strength on the [British ] biplanes, which are now flying in confused circles. One of the Fokkers singled out his prey and he doesn’t leave him. While the big biplane only seeks to fly lower or higher, the Fokker cuts off the escape each time. Suddenly the big machine reels. ‘Hurrah; he’s hit!’ is roared from a thousand throats.”

As the four German planes descended on the hapless British F.E.2bs, the RFC pilots pulled into a defensive circle, hoping to cover each other — this was what would later be called a Lufbery Circle. A first pass, then a second came as Immelmann opened fire at one of the planes in the formation. True to form, this time his aim was true and his single burst of fire hit the pilot. RFC Lt. J.R.B. Savage, in his F.E.2b pusher, serial number 4909, was mortally wounded and his plane fell out of formation and crashed to the earth.

Surprisingly, Immelmann’s wingman, Max Mulzer, was later credited with the victory, though that was eventually overturned.

This time, however, Immelmann did not fly past the first F.E.2b and once again pull around in a wide arc at a safe distance. Instead, he pulled up vertically into his trademark maneuver, the “Immelmann Turn”. His goal was to quickly dispatch a second F.E.2b, as the British reconnaissance planes were so inferior and such easy targets for the attacking ace.

The Real Immelmann Turn

Whereas many today credit Immelmann with inventing a half-loop maneuver with a roll at the top back upright, in actual fact, the original Immelmann Turn was anything but that. Immelmann’s actual maneuver was a vertical pull-up into an extreme version of a chandelle, but with kicking the rudder hard at the top to pull the nose back around and down, thus allowing the plane to fall nearly vertically back into the enemy formation for a second attack. Immelmann’s favored maneuver, if anything, resembles what we now consider a hammerhead stall. His maneuver would have put him directly behind and above his next target — none other than the F.E.2b of Second Lieutenant George R. McCubbin.

At the top of the maneuver, as Immelmann’s plane was at its slowest, the unthinkable happened. On board the second RFC F.E.2b piloted by Second Lieutenant G.R. McCubbin, was in the circle behind Lt. Savage’s now stricken plane, the McCubbin’s gunner, Corporal James H. Waller, who sat in front of the pilot, stood up and pointed his single machine gun backward and up at Immelmann’s airplane. Immelmann’s Eindecker was just reaching the top of its arc and was flying at its slowest point as Immelmann kicked the rudder to begin his descent into the next attack. Corporal Waller fired at the nearly stationary target. His bullets struck home.

Immelmann’s plane was severely damaged. Corporal Waller would years later claim that his fire had hit Immelmann’s prop and forward fuselage. In any case, with the damage sustained, the E.III fell off the top of the maneuver and began its plunge downward, the engine violently shaking the fuselage. Immelmann, who had experienced two prop failures (he had indeed twice shot off his own propeller in the past) perhaps struggled at the controls — or perhaps he was shot and unconscious. At least twice, Immelmann’s plane apparently leveled before stalling again and pitching downward. Then, the tail broke away.

Second Lieutenant G.R. McCubbin, RFC

News Reports Afterward

The German publication, Tägliche Rundschau, printed an eyewitness letter that described the scene:

“Immelmann didn’t make it easy for his enemies. He had already shot down three enemy fliers, and at the time of his death plunge he was engaged in a fight with two enemy machines. While he was pursuing and firing at the one his Fokker was hit by the other. Probably a steel truss was broken, but Immelmann had bitten himself so firmly into his enemy that he didn’t notice it. He continued to pursue his victim until suddenly the tail broke off, and Immelmann and his rudderless Fokker plunged to his death. His half-annihilated enemy was then brought down by Immelmann’s comrades, also in Fokkers.”

Another German publication was quoted in the New York Times (remember that it would be another year before the USA entered into World War I, and the thus the Times was representing a neutral country). In that, an eyewitness’s letter was quoted at length, including this passage:

“I was watching closely, and noticed that the Fokker, too, was making curious tumbling motions, righting itself like an animal mortally wounded, then fluttering down, first slowly, then faster. A sudden jerk brings the machine again to a horizontal position. Thank God, I think, and breathe easier, when suddenly the Fokker overturns completely, the tail falls away, one of the wings flutters off, and, with an uncanny whistling sound, the machine precipitates from 6,000 feet earthward and strikes with a dull thud.”

Controversy over Immelmann’s Death

In the wake of Immelmann’s loss, the Germans dispatched investigators to determine how their most brilliant ace of aces could have been shot down. Anthony Fokker himself examined the wreckage. Aided by propaganda, rumors abounded that Immelmann’s aircraft had been shot down by ground fire from the German army itself, rather than as a result of enemy action. Others claimed that by his own firing at the British aircraft, he had shot off his propeller, causing his own plane to crash. Few on the German side were willing to admit that the British had prevailed and shot Immelmann from the skies. Anthony Fokker declared that Immelmann’s plane had been hit by friendly fire, thus crediting the loss to the expertise of the German Army’s own.

What did actually happen is still unclear, though the evidence points clearly that Second Lieutenant G.R. McCubbin’s gunner, Corporal J. H. Waller, did fire off his one shot at Immelmann’s Eindecker E.III and score the victory. Perhaps Corporal Waller’s fire struck the Eindecker’s prop and sheered it away, as Waller later recalled. Perhaps his fire also struck critical parts of the air frame, causing the fuselage to fail and tear away. Perhaps his bullets struck Immelmann, wounding him and knocking him unconscious.

There was no evidence that Immelmann’s plane was shot down by ground fire. The combat was a 6,000 feet of altitude — it would only have been heavy anti-aircraft guns that could have reached that high, where the later “experts” declared the damage to be from small arms fire.

The wreckage of Immelmann’s Fokker Eindecker E.III.

The only evidence supporting a possible malfunction of the E.III’s interrupter gear, which would have meant that Immelmann had shot off his own propeller, was that the prop was indeed found shattered near the hub (whether from impact with the ground, fire from the British airplane, or Immelmann’s own shooting, is unclear. At the point in the combat where he was supposedly shot down, Immelmann was not in a position to fire — it is possible, however, that he had shot off his own propeller, or damaged it, while making his attack just before pulling up. It is worth noting that for Corporal Waller, Immelmann’s Eindecker had posed a perfect target, without any significant deflection and hanging there in a nearly vertical position directly behind. Another question that perhaps could be asked is simply — How could he have missed?

Regardless, what is certain is that Immelmann’s stricken plane fell out of the combat in a fatal dive. As the plane exceeded its maximum speed, the rear fuselage broke off. Without the counterbalancing effect of the tail planes, the rest of the E.III plunged vertically into the ground at high speed. If Immelmann was still alive at that point, he was killed on impact anyway.

Aftermath and Death

After the impact, German ground forces ran to the downed machine. Quickly, they pulled the crushed body of the pilot from the wreckage. When they saw that the pilot wore the Pour le Merit medal at his neck, they knew he was one of their two greatest aces — it could only be Boelcke or Immelmann, the only two pilots to have received the famous award. On the pilot’s collar they saw the initials “M.I.”, and knew then it was Max Immelmann. The “Eagle of Lille”, was dead.

As for Corporal Waller, whose aim had brought down one of the Germany’s top aces, he would watch as the pilot, Second Lt. McCubbin, was awarded with two medals for his flying. Rank Has Its Privileges, as they say For his part, Corporal Waller would receive his sergeant’s stripes as a thank you — well enough deserved for an enlisted man in the Royal Flying Corps, of course. Shortly afterward, correcting the wrong, the RFC awarded him the Distinguished Conduct Medal.